Demon Hunter: Northrend
by Nex-thanarak
Summary: The Frozen Throne.  Source of the Scourge and humanity's greatest peril.  Before he can gain his freedom Nex must join Illidan Stormrage in assaulting this dread bastion in the icy wastes of Northrend.  But will it be so simple?  Book three of the series.
1. Prologue

Hello everyone,

I'm pleased to present the third and final book of the Demon Hunter series, Demon Hunter: Northrend.

I'd like to thank everyone who's read this far, and for the feedback you've given. It's been a great help to see where clarification is needed or how a certain plot twist will be received. I hope you'll continue on with me to the end, and that you've enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it :).

If you're new to the series I'd encourage you to begin with the first book, Demon Hunter, and continue with the second, Demon Hunter: Outland, before reading this. Why start the adventure at the end, right?

NT

Prologue

Fire and Ice

Someone had once told him that noise was like ripples in a pond, spreading through the air in expanding spheres. He'd thought that was a ridiculous notion at the time, even if it was true. But the fact that noise traveled through earth as well as air, translated to vibrations and distant rumbles, made it seem more likely.

That and the fact that with his enhanced second sight he could "see" the ripples, spheres just like that crazy human had claimed. Could, but didn't want to; there were far more sounds than he would ever have imagined, and seeing them as well as hearing them and trying to process the sensations simultaneously quickly gave him a splitting headache.

Somewhere up above, Tempest Keep and its satellites had arrived. The naga were long gone, returned to Azeroth and their watery home for reinforcements, and it seemed with the arrival of the Corona's Blaze regiment Stormrage's forces were preparing to move out. Noisily preparing, so much so that he could hear them even in the bowels of the Black Temple. Echoing through the armory from the ramps that lead up into more populous areas, shaking the earth beneath his feet and the roof overhead.

But that was all distant. All his focus was on the iron in his hand, the hammer. Every swing as precise as inexperienced muscles could manage. The deafening clang with each strike, bleeding one into another. Watching the soft metal slowly take shape.

It was the most peaceful he'd felt in a long, long time.

Sandiv was asleep in the small bunkroom off to one end of the hall. The smith had pushed himself hard, nearly as hard as Nex in his own way, but he had no magic to sustain his mortal shell. He was a simple elf who spent his days swinging a hammer, so other soldiers were better equipped to fight and die.

It had probably been hours that the noise and vibrations had remained at this fever pitch. Intense activity up above, action and excitement and most likely fear. A sane person would feel fear, knowing they were about to go to a land where cold reigned most of the year and the winters could kill. If you stayed long enough to die of cold, for Northrend was the realm of the undead. And the undead did not suffer the living.

His arms were strained, muscles fraying. He had not eaten, for all he'd intended to begin. And even magic could not protect flesh from unrelenting abuse, nor heal it effectively; his left leg had buckled twice as he walked from anvil to forge to pile of iron bars to stacks of finished torpedoes.

He'd never felt so much like a puppet, his flesh not even his own. And yet still it was satisfying.

Sandiv had probably been gone for nearly five hours when Nex paused in the hammering, his second sight warning him of the approach of something foreign. It was cold and loveless, with little to it of life or warmth. No demon, this, or even the hint of anything demonic. A different sort of power that was remote and empty and chill as the Great Dark Beyond. That power swept ever closer, until it entered the armory down the steep ramp and began walking across the cavernous chamber towards him.

A boy. Equal parts elf and human, so much so that one ear was small and round while the other was large and pointy. Pale green eyes, dirty blond hair, pale skin. Nex knew these features, though he was surprised to see them here. The boy seemed to catch sight of him, recognizing him as different from the elvish smiths working in their own group well away from him, and his feet took him to stand behind Nex. There was silence until Nex slammed his hammer down on the rod with a deafening clangor. It had cooled enough to do little, so he waited for the noise to die down and let the hammer lie.

"I'm surprised to see you, Montfere," he finally said when the boy continued to stay stubbornly silent.

Ilinar Montfere took a ragged breath, perhaps surprised that Nex knew he was there even though he'd never turned to look and the noise must have hid his approach. "You shouldn't be. I'm your squire, right?"

"At one point." Nex carried the bar over to the forge and shoved it into the coals, then began working the bellows. "You shouldn't be here. It's not safe."

For a moment Montfere's face went slack with disbelief, and then the boy cursed. "Safe? You left me alone in the middle of a battle, you and Saire both! You promised to protect me, but apparently that wasn't anything you cared about!"

"Saire promised, boy. I was merely so inclined."

The boy spat off to one side. "If Hardal hadn't been there I would've been right back where you left me weeks ago! Bastards driving me from camp with rocks and curses to die of thirst in a wasteland."

Nex paused at the bellows and turned to face Montfere. "And what do you expect from me, coming here?"

Sullen eyes stared at the ground, refusing to meet his. "You took me away from the refugee camp, once. You saved my life, once. Not much more than that, but it was more than my own people saw fit to do. I'm your squire, right?" His voice lowered to a near whisper, and though he tried to hide it Nex could see the anguish within the boy, bordering on despair. "I just want to be your squire."

A silence settled between them as Nex stood in thoughtful silence. Saved his life. Yes, that was something most warlocks did not do, by inclination or experimentation, and when they did attempt such preservation of souls it usually ended badly. Montfere had been dead in airless emptiness in a dimensional pocket of the Twisting Nether, his body still and cold for days. Did the chill of the grave ever leave a man? Perhaps the Light could wash such away in one of its rare resurrections, but the ritual he'd performed to revive Montfere couldn't be counted holy by any standard.

Something to keep an eye on, in any case. Montfere's latent power had changed, become like a frozen seed waiting to sprout. It might be worthwhile to watch the process. "You've misplaced your loyalty, boy."

Montfere's head lifted slowly, eyes raising. "Oh? Well I don't seem to have any better choice, do-" When his eyes reached Nex's face the boy broke off with a curse and stared at his empty sockets. "What happened to your eyes?"

Nex smiled thinly. "I tore them out so I could see better."

The youth's shock became confusion. "That doesn't make any sense."

He ignored that. "So you wish to make the arrangement between us formal. I suppose you'll be expecting some sort of oath from me that I'll do better about seeing to your needs."

"Sure, why not? Even though promises are stupid and you won't keep them."

Nex showed his teeth, drawing Montfere's eyes from his blind eyes to rest there. "Oh, I keep my promises, boy. The question is, what would I get from such an arrangement?"

Montfere scowled. "What did you get the first time you took me in? I can guarantee you I'm the only one around here who doesn't want to put a knife in your back. Anyway us humans need to stick together."

"Humans," Nex repeated flatly.

The boy jutted his chin out defiantly. "Couldn't be worse than my other heritage."

_You'd be surprised_. "Neither of us can truly claim humanity, by heritage or nurture. But you're right, we had best stick together. You have my word, you will never again find me heedless of your well-being." Nex pulled the bar from the forge and carried it back over to the anvil, continuing his attempts to shape it.

"So that's it?" Montfere demanded, putting his hands on his hips.

"For the moment, yes. I have a lot to do and little time to spare on distractions. Is that understood?" The boy nodded, even though Nex's back was to him, and that was that.

At first. Montfere was quiet for several minutes, watching him work. But once the novelty of it wore off he began shifting in boredom, as boys did, until even Nex's unspoken warning wasn't enough to keep him quiet. "I didn't know you worked metal."

Nex grimaced. "I don't. When the smith sleeps or otherwise rests I do the job as best I can, but my work is inferior." He pointed to the pile beside the smoothly tapered and razor-tipped torpedoes, where the round bars had blunted ridges and edges and the tips were ugly, the angle steep rather than tapering.

The boy glanced over, then winced slightly. "Well at least you'll be getting better at it."

"Will I? Working on these green weapons? I've hammered out ten or so before without seeing any notable increase in skill. It's actually quite irritating. In fact for the last thirty or so I've seen not the slightest sign my skill is improving."

"Oh." Montfere shifted slightly. "Well you've still got lots to do, right?"

"Three thousand two hundred and eighty-four," Nex said, tone flat.

"Oh. Well it's almost guaranteed you'll skill up doing so many."

Nex paused in his awkward hammering and turned an irritated gaze on the half-elf. "You want to serve? Take those tongs there and lift a bar into the forge, then put on more fuel and pump the bellows." Likely the boy would foul up the first few attempts, heating the metal too hot so it shattered, or not hot enough so it had to be reheated. But like with his own efforts, they had plenty more to practice on.

Plenty, plenty more. He might even be smithing as well as Sandiv himself by the end. Hell, even Montfere might be taking a turn, though the boy's arms were so scrawny he'd likely fail miserably.

His head was pounding, and the latent influx of power from the Illidari stone wasn't sufficient to his needs, requiring him to draw shadows as well. He'd already consumed the stone's reserves in a fit of impatience, using magic to do the work that coals and hammer and elvish hands did so slowly. For all that power he'd managed to create thirty or so, nearly as fine as Sandiv's but much, much more costly.

At this rate he'd probably have to rest himself before too long. But he ignored his body's cries for the regenerative trance and the frayed, sharp pains in his arms, shoulders, and back, continuing to strike one after the other, as Montfere worked the forge. True to his predictions it took the boy several tries to become even competent, and he continued to make mistakes and misjudge temperatures even after several hours.

"Human."

Nex tensed, though he didn't slow his efforts. His second sight had warned him of the blood elf's approach, but he'd paid little attention, assuming it was someone about the business of Prince Kael'thas. Now he was aware that the man's clothing was finer, his features less coarse. A messenger, and one well-ranked. He set his hammer on the anvil beside the poorly worked excuse for a torpedo and turned to Montfere. "There is food and water in the bunkroom at the end of the armory. Bring some out and tend your needs. You have five minutes."

The look the boy gave him was almost absurdly grateful. Sweat was streaming down Montfere's face, soot and ash spotting his sun-darkened skin. He'd wisely removed his shirt to work the bellows, and the way his arms hung limp suggested how hard the work had been. Perhaps he was due more than a few minutes of rest; Nex would have to ask him what the limits of a mortal's strength were.

But before the boy could go for his deserved meal the messenger's eyes snagged on him, noted he was quite obviously serving Nex, and narrowed. "What is this?"

Nex fought a surge of irritation. Just like a blood elf to not give a rat's ass for something until it wasn't his place to do so, and suddenly it was worth his complete attention. "A boy. If you cannot identify one I shudder to think at what else you're ignorant of."

The elf's face remained smoothly contemptuous. "What is an elven child doing in your care, human? Who did you steal him from?"

Montfere stepped forward, the heat of his angry expression tempered by the cold power gathering within him. "Half-elf. And you people can't claim me anyway. You've left me to die once and tried to again!"

"And you think you'll fare better in the human's care?" The elf seemed amused, though none of that emotion showed in his face or words.

"Ilinar Montfere is my squire. He serves me well, and I'm bound to protect and care for him."

"You do not have the right to take any of elven blood as squire."

"Do you intend to claim him? Or at least strip him from me?" The elf made no reply. "What will you do once you've accomplished that? I doubt you'd be interested in caring for him yourself, or even seeing that he's cared for. You don't give a damn about the boy, only your elvish pride, and after you'd denied me him he'd probably spend his days starving among the Wretched, as he was before."

After a moment the messenger turned away. Once his back was turned he grimaced, face darkening with annoyance. Obviously he thought none would see the expression. Nex smiled at the elf's back. "I suggest you take your petition to Prince Kael'thas to make his squireship official, human," the messenger said, "lest you suffer this same argument from other lips. But in the meantime Lord Illidan calls for you, and you will come."

"Of course." Nex turned to Montfere. "Watch my weapons while I'm gone." He saw the boy's look of dismay. "While you're eating and resting, of course."

"All right." The boy hesitated. "What do I do if someone tries to take them?"

_Fight for them to the death_. Nex smiled with some amusement as he went and drew out four of the best of Sandiv's work, slipping them into loops he'd sewn into the inner lining of his cloak, up near the shoulders where they wouldn't swing as much. "Come and find me if that happens." What, did the boy expect to be asked to give his life defending a few lumps of fel iron? "And remember, you can touch the finished weapons but not the raw iron, for your own safety."

"You've told me that like twenty times already."

"That's nineteen more times than I told you not to disenchant the weapon I gave you and consume the energy. This is nineteen times more important than that."

As he walked away Montfere directed a rude gesture at his back, and he smiled further. If nothing else, his enhanced second sight let him know what people were doing when they thought he couldn't see. He couldn't begrudge the boy a bit of harmless rebellion, though; he'd never had the courage for such at that age.

It should've served to make him a better smith as well, but he supposed smithing was an art that required talent and experience, neither of which he seemed to possess.

The messenger was silent as he led him up out of the bowels of the Black Temple. "I know the way to Stormrage's hall," he said. The elf ignored him; he was obviously displeased at having to escort him, but just as obviously meant to see him directly to Stormrage's presence.

If that was his intention he was going to be disappointed. Nex had a task to complete before attending his master. Likely a simple one, but one never knew when it came to women. "I need to find a mage called Saire Firedge."

With his back to Nex the man obviously thought it safe to show his feelings, and he scowled deeply. "Lord Illidan wishes your presence."

"If you won't aid me in finding her I'll part ways with you and search on my own. I imagine that will take even longer."

The messenger spun, eyes narrowing. "Must I compel you in this?"

Nex smiled, showing his long canines. "Can you?"

. . . . .

The mages were practicing on the roof of the temple's right wing when he found them. The messenger had led him a merry chase searching for Saire. He'd assumed his onetime lover would be rotting in a cell somewhere, but to his surprise she'd been assigned to the Blood Prince's own mage cadre. Going to the rooms those mages held had found them mostly empty, and he'd been redirected here. Sometime during the goose chase the messenger had grown irritated and wandered off, probably to apologize to Stormrage for his wayward servant's tardiness.

For a moment he hung back, watching the apprentices tracing their spellforms in the air and speaking their focusing words. A few of the initiates and even adepts were doing the same; it was possible to cast entirely within the mind, but it took a great deal of mental effort. Many inexperienced or lazy spellcasters never graduated from the focusing aids of word and gesture, which was just as well for there were higher rituals where such were necessary even for archmages, as well as spells so dangerous that a mistake could spell disaster for the caster and everyone around them. It was easier to make mistakes in an undisciplined mind, while hand gestures kept spells rigidly in check.

But gods, it was noisy. All these mages shouting their spells, working their artist's traceries in the air in front of them. It would almost appear amusing if these shouting fools weren't loosing waves of devastation at chunks of stone hovering at the far end of the terrace. Fire, and ice, and arcane. The last was tricky, for often the casters showed no signs of what they were casting, the destructive energy simply gathering around their target. A man would have to be quick to protect himself from such spells.

On another top of the obsidian-floored rooftop mages dueled with less lethal spells. Contests at polymorph, to see who could get the spell off quickest. Arcane slowing, or summoning up their water elemental servants to bind their enemies in frost. Even work with wards to protect against cold and flame, testing their own strength and their resiliency against attacks. He saw one mage adept valiantly maintaining a mana shield, his reserves rapidly dwindling as a blizzard of ice shards fell around him, called by another adept's hands. He was struggling to free himself of the attack before his mana pool failed. In the end he was unsuccessful, and was forced to Blink away a moment before a shard of ice as big and wicked as one of Nex's torpedoes would have torn his head from his body.

That Blink took the man within ten feet of where Nex stood in shadows, and he sent a soothing tendril of power into the mage's mind, directing his attention away from where he stood. The man was so focused on the blizzard behind him that he'd narrowly escaped, and so drained mentally and in his mana pool, that he barely noticed the mental nudge. A few of the other, more experienced mages perked up, looking around for the source of unfamiliar power, but none caught sight of him.

Except one. Eyes narrowing, Saire Firedge halted her polymorph efforts and snapped off a counterspell instead, sending her opponent reeling backwards, stunned, then began looking around for him. Ignoring her opponent's curses she turned and stalked his way, eyes that glowed with fel energy searching until they found where he waited.

Nex was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the ruin of his eyes and the way they must look. He hurriedly tore a strip free of his already ragged shirt and tied it about his head in a crude blindfold. _I'm becoming more like my master every day,_ he thought with bitter amusement.

Saire saw what he'd done, and as she stopped ten feet away she made a curt gesture. "So it's true, you put out your own eyes." A bitter laugh escaped her throat. "So much for going nobly to your own death."

"Nobility is a useless trait, particularly when one isn't alive to enjoy it."

"Your opinion on the matter explains why you were so willing to let me die alongside you," she spat. Nex could see how much difficulty she was having in controlling her emotions. "You son of a bitch. After you bent over backwards trying to save our enemies I thought you might not be a complete shit. I was certainly wrong."

Words were a useless artillery if one wanted to hurt a person. At least Nex had never been vulnerable to them. For others that probably wasn't the case. "Montfere sought me out. He'd been once again left to the mercies of those who drove him away to die."

The woman reeled back as if he'd slapped her, her anger gone in an instant as she paled. "Ilinar," she whispered. "Anasterian's grace, is he all right?"

Nex could have been cruel, but it would serve no point. "Dor'ane was there to look after him, thankfully. I wouldn't have liked to see him hurt again."

She looked away, expression bitter but also somewhat guilty. "What do you want? If you've come to apologize-"

"I need my possessions back. I trust you have them?"

Saire stiffened. "You _haven't _come to apologize? After all you've-" she cut herself off this time, grimacing. "Your equipment. The items you left behind, careless of their fate?"

"Yes, those. The gesture was born of impending martyrdom. Since I seem to still be here, I would like my possessions returned."

"What motivation do I have to do any such thing?" she snapped. "I was unwilling to betray you, and when it became a choice between my death and doing something you clearly wanted to do anyway, considering you're still alive, you chose to let me die!"

Nex smiled sadly. "You were unwilling to betray me, but you wished me to betray myself?"

"Don't try to play me with your logical absurdities, human!"

He sighed. "I am sorry you got involved. I did not wish the fate they threatened you with, and would have done something about it if I could."

She looked away, seeming more pained than angry. "Why should I give them back? You were careless enough in casting them aside. I almost considered them a gift."

"Maybe they were a gift," Nex admitted. "It was never my intention to give them to you and then reclaim them, but it was a foolish gesture when I thought I was going to my grave, and as I'm still alive I'd like my possessions back."

"It's been over a week, and you've waited this long."

"I had no need of them before. Now I do."

He thought she was going to explode, as fierce and deadly as the flames she wielded, but instead her anger seemed to melt away. She walked towards him, hips swaying seductively, and there was a curious expression on her narrow, delicate face. He could no longer appreciate its beauty, but with his second sight he did note that it was slightly asymmetrical; her nose pulled almost imperceptibly downward and to the left, and her mouth up and to the right. As she approached she reached into her robes and withdrew the box that held the pocket portal. Nex turned his bandaged eyes down to look at it, and when he did her arm darted up and around in a vicious slap.

He saw it, of course. He'd seen it coming when it was no more than a tensing of her muscles. He'd even seen it in the rigidity of her posture as she approached, the way her eyes watched him warily to see if she could catch him off guard. As her arm came around he slid his head back, not jerking it away but in a smooth, considered motion, and her fingertips barely brushed his cheek as the slap whooshed by. Saire had put so much force into it that she stumbled slightly when she missed, and he reached out and caught her shoulder to support her.

She shook him away angrily. "Let go of me!" she snapped. Her eyes blazed, even more than fel fires could account for. "You couldn't even give me one last gesture, after all you've done to me?"

He frowned. "_I've _done to you?"

She flung the box at his face, and he caught it easily. "You stood by and told Illidan he was welcome to kill me! I don't give a damn if you have no problem with throwing your own life away, but don't you dare think you can snuff me out with you!"

Nex opened the box and shook out the cloth, watching as it flattened in midair and became the portal's opening. It was a fascinating process viewed with his second sight. It only took him a moment to ensure that his armor, pack, bags of gold, and single heavy knife all remained. Through it all he was equally aware of Saire's growing rage as he deliberately ignored her.

He reached into the pocket of his pack that held the Ankh, palming it, then turned to face the elf woman as he snapped the cloth back into existence and tucked it into its box. "Wouldn't you say it's the vilest sort of creature that would take one of his own people, an innocent woman no less, and forfeit her life as leverage to control someone who cared about her?"

She blinked. "Well yes, but-"

Nex tossed the Ankh to her and tucked the box into his belt pouch, noting that she was much clumsier in catching than he'd been. She'd always gotten more use out of the healing trinket anyway. "It was harder than you'll believe to keep my resolve when a warglaive was pressed to your throat, although that's probably no consolation to you. But it was Kael'thas who conceived of the brilliant notion of using you as a hostage to my good behavior. And yet here you are, training alongside his mages as his faithful lapdog. And you're angry at me."

He turned to the stairs leading down off the terrace and walked away. Behind him he could sense Saire's power gathering for a particularly vicious spell, see her hands twitching and her lips mouthing words. But instead of loosing it she whirled around, leaving the spell to fade away uncast. With his back to her, and her back to him, she must have thought it safe to finally let the tears fall.

He was never more aware of the humanity he lacked than watching that first salty drop splash the smooth flat stones of the terrace. Perhaps there was a gentler way he could have handled that situation. Perhaps there was still some way to offer her comfort, but he couldn't see it. She owed him no loyalty, and he'd been willing to toss aside her life for his own ends. No better than her precious Blood Prince in that regard.

She'd come to his bed but once, and he'd humiliated her even in that. Better to have her hate him at their parting, let her take what comfort she could in that burning emotion, than try to offer empty apologies and remorse he couldn't feel. He had nothing to give her, and he'd warned her of that from the first.

He had less than nothing to give her.

. . . . .

In the antechamber leading to Stormrage's throne room, dozens of blood elves, naga, demons, and even a few Broken waited their lord's pleasure. Their entry into the throne room was blocked by an elite force of bodyguards, representatives picked from all Stormrage's disparate minions. He wondered if he should be among that group representing himself. At first he thought Akama's Deathsworn were out of favor, none of them in evidence, until he noticed that two waited halfway along the walls, skulking in the shadows drawn about them. Those shadows would hide them from normal eyes, but to his second sight their outlines were clear. Clear, although harder to focus on. He gave a salute to each of them in turn, and was gratified to see both jerk slightly in surprise.

"You come at last," the messenger who'd fetched him said. The elf was standing only a few feet from the doors with their bodyguards, impatience well hidden behind his icy calm. "I do not know if Lord Illidan is ready to receive you. One moment."

Nex toyed with the idea of simply walking in, but decided he'd been impertinent enough. Instead he waited a short distance from the bodyguards as the elf was admitted into his master's presence. A few moments later the messenger emerged and gave him a curt nod. Nex slipped past him into the room.

To his surprise Stormrage was alone, without his usual entourage of officers and cronies. Of course the naga were mostly gone, and the elves busy with their preparations for departure. The demonic night elf was leaning over the map table, and Nex was interested to see that a spellwrought topographical map of Northrend was upon it. He moved a bit closer, intrigued; aside from a few incomplete sketches he'd never seen a map of the continent they were to assault, and most of those maps had been mere outlines following an unexplored coast, with the interior of the continent blank.

But before he could take in many details Stormrage turned, frowning. "You are making prodigious use of the stores of raw materials in my armory, human."

Nex was somewhat surprised. He'd been called in for this? "Fel iron. I see none of your elves using it. And it's there in great supply."

Stormrage stretched out his hand, and Nex jerked forward slightly as a torpedo was torn from his cloak and crossed the distance to the demonic night elf's grip. Stormrage looked it over with a faint twist of his lips, then turned and flung it at a granite bench on the other side of the room. The thing flew quiet as a whisper until it struck with a loud clang, bouncing away. After a moment the bench groaned as it cracked in two and settled. "Crude and effective. A waste of material for a throwing weapon, however, considering a good dagger would use a quarter the fel iron."

"A good dagger wouldn't tear the head off an undead on impact." Nex levitated the torpedo back over to him and, since the loops that had held it were useless now, tucked it into his belt. "Do you wish me to pay you for the materials?"

Annoyance flickered across Stormrage's patrician features. "What possible use could I have for gold? No, human. You don't seem to realize how rare fel iron is. Even on worlds held by the Burning Legion the conditions are rarely right to infuse regular iron this way. Cataclysms such as the one which struck Draenor are rare, as are the elements created by them. Fel iron will only seem plentiful until it's gone."

Nex fought to conceal his own annoyance. Stormrage couldn't have told him this _before_ he'd exhausted himself for over a week creating thousands of weapons? "Do you wish me to return what I've used?"

The demonic night elf flicked a hand at him dismissively. "Unlike ethereals with their haggling, I'm not of the opinion that scarcity equates to value. Fel iron is dangerous and takes a great deal of effort to render harmless, at which point you have iron weapons that are inferior to steel and possess only a few special properties. If you wish to go to the effort you're welcome to as much of it as you like. My smiths will be pleased to see part of the armory floor cleared of such dross."

"As you wish. I'm assuming you didn't summon me here to complain about something you obviously don't care about. How may I serve?"

For a short while Stormrage continued to stare at the map, brow creased in thought or perhaps anger. When he spoke it was sudden, showing no sign of shifting in place to turn. "You've tapped the stone recently." It was a statement that was in fact a question.

"Working fel iron requires an unexpected amount of power. I'd much prefer to not use it myself, simply set the smiths to working other materials. But they don't have any other materials to spare, even for themselves."

"My smiths, my material." Stormrage turned, and his eyes glowed brighter. "My power."

"Are we back to this, then?"

Stormrage bared his teeth. "Have you begun metamorphosing?"

Nex kept his features still and his body relaxed, relying on his second sight to help him show no sign of his surprise. He failed; he'd rarely been so shocked by anything. "What?"

"The demonic metamorphosis. The penultimate display of power in a demon hunter's arsenal."

This topic made him distinctly uncomfortable. He found himself wishing Stormrage was still hounding him about his theft of fel iron. "Penultimate. In other words there's an ultimate?"

The demonic night elf shrugged. "There's always a means to greater power. I've not found it yet." After ten thousand years Nex had a feeling it probably wasn't there to be found. At least not without taking extreme measures. He didn't reply immediately, trying to think of what to say. Did Stormrage know, and was simply testing him, or was he ignorant of the truth? Before he could decide one way or another his master continued. "Even possessing a great deal of power, metamorphosis is a singularly difficult thing to manage. At least in such a way that you can come back from it, and control yourself while in that form. Or for that matter reach the form in the first place. Most petty warlocks fail to even begin the process, and those who succeed usually end up forever corrupting themselves as often as not, devolving into mindless brutes of incredible destructive power until the chaos within them proves fatal. Useful servants to create, no doubt, but you're too clever to waste in such a way."

"Did you still wish me to answer the question?"

The answering smile was unpleasant, even for Stormrage. "The process comes much easier, of course, and is easier to control, if you already possess demonic heritage."

Nex's breath caught audibly in his throat, loud enough that Stormrage must have heard. His heritage. He had been beaten often in his early years, invoked the wrath of his mistress on just about every encounter. But the few times she had ever come close to killing him outright had been when he'd expressed even the slightest curiosity about his sire. "Perhaps you could elaborate?"

Stormrage raised and eyebrow. "Not going to bite? I believe, back when we first negotiated your servitude, I mentioned something of telling you of your heritage. You never rose to the bait, to accept or refuse my offer, but it remains all the same."

"My birthright is of little interest to me. I'd much rather hear of things which could be of use to me, such as this metamorphosis you speak of."

"Knowledge is power, human. Do you think knowing what manner of demon spawned you would not give you the means to know of your own power? Its limitations, its potential, even its very nature." Nex narrowed his eyes, and Stormrage laughed. Cold and harsh to his ears. "Oh yes, you've been naturally metamorphosing every time you draw my power. You've yet to even attempt a step down that dangerous path to deliberately metamorphosing and exploring the possibilities it entails, but the fact that it comes so easily to you is confirmation enough that what I say is true."

Nex realized he was shaking slightly. He'd never shown any interest in who his mistress's lover had been. It had always been in the back of his mind that he had some demonic heritage, and he'd certainly been treated that way by his mistress and her servants. But he'd never explored the question, and not only because of Lynda's wrath. Now, with the question there before him, and an answer possible, he realized that he didn't want to know. That in fact the answer terrified him.

"I wish to speak no more of this."

Cold green flames behind fine black cloth burned counterpoint to his invisible black behind dirty gray, a sinister echo to locking stares. "Is that so? Very well then. I will warn you, at the least. Make every effort to curb the metamorphosis process when next you draw my power. If you will not learn to control it then you should very much fear what it can do to you."

Nex took in the night elf's curving ebony horns, leathery wings folded about him like a cloak, and hooves burning with invisible demonic fire. Ostensibly these permanent changes had taken place when Stormrage consumed the Skull of Gul'dan, indicators of the vast power he'd taken in from the artifact. Or so he had heard from all the sources on Kalimdor who'd sent word of it. But what if it had been a careless use of metamorphosis instead?

He needed to be cautious, here. Stormrage spoke lies with every breath, and there may be some reason why his master wished him to believe these things. Another string tied about him to keep him pliant and always returning to his master's side?

"Very well. Anything else?"

A curt nod. "If you refuse my offers of payment, then let's get on to your side of things."

Another surprise. "I thought I wouldn't be beginning my recruitment efforts until we returned to Azeroth. Didn't you want me for my human heritage, so I could be your mouthpiece to humanity?"

"Yes indeed. But your assumption is incorrect, for there are humans to be found on Outland."

Nex blinked. "Remnants of High General Turalyon's expedition?"

"And a few ragged prisoners and refugees taken by the orcs in the First and Second wars, yes. Miserable wretches, little more than highwaymen and murderers. But they are veterans of countless battles, and so useful to our purposes."

_If I can control them._ The thought of leading an army of oathbreakers and backstabbers didn't please him. "Wretched or not, I'm surprised they survived all these years. They've been believed to be lost for over a decade."

"The cravens of the Alliance were too busy rebuilding to bother braving the Rift after the Dark Portal was destroyed a second time. They merely assumed Draenor was dead, as the few Sons of Lothar who managed to flee back through before its destruction claimed. This would not be the first time mankind has abandoned its heroes when they were no more use to them."

_I'm sure these "heroes" will be pleased to hear that._ "And how am I to gain the service of these men?"

Stormrage smiled thinly. "Need you ask? The same way you gained the service of your last army: save their lives."


	2. Sons of Lothar

Hey guys.

Here's chapter one, complete. I apologize for the delay in getting it out. Chapter two is otw.

NT

Chapter One

Sons of Lothar

The line was broken.

That was bad. His men were growing sloppy, losing discipline. Even with the enemy's attack fragmenting that was no excuse to break ranks and run out after them. His men were soldiers, not heroes, and they needed to remember that, by the gods.

"Form up!" Marbrand bellowed angrily. "Gods damn, you fools, form up! Can't you see they're drawing you out so they can get at you?"

As if his words were a prophecy the mo'arg and felguards who were pressing the center and flanks in small, fierce groups all across the battlefield suddenly broke away from the lines and swarmed those who'd broken ranks, as if by unspoken signal; it wasn't the first time they'd made such coordinated attacks, and it was must undemonlike of them.

Damn it to the various hells. His people were out of position, now, reeling from this unexpected counterattack. He couldn't even pound discipline into them anymore. They were too busy swinging a sword or snatching a few desperate moments of sleep.

Shit, _he_ was too busy doing the same.

There was nothing for it. The only way to meet this sudden charge was to _meet_ it. "Forward the line, double pace!"

All along the line his men formed a saw formation, every other man forward with those to either side hanging back a pace. They trotted forward, weapons thudding into shields at every second step to keep the time. Marbrand led his own wedge towards where his scattered men struggled to fall back to the safety of the lines, beating his ugly black broadsword against his shield along with the rest. He watched one man in full flight, Rancy he thought, suddenly lunge forward, but only because a viciously barbed felguard's greatsword punched through his chest and lifted him off his feet. The sight filled him with rage, and he itched to break ranks himself and charge the godsdamn demon himself.

No need. They'd gone less than five paces forward when the demons once again reacted as one, whirling to all rush the center.

Right at him.

Marbrand lifted his sword into the air and the center halted as one, a score of left feet stepping forward, a score of shields lifting to meet the charge as everyone bellowed in unison. The left and right flanks continued forward, and if the demons tried to punch through the center like a fist the flanks would punish them for it.

He dropped his sword into a ready stabbing position and lifted his own shield, ignoring how his arm shook with weariness. And then the demons were upon him.

A massive mace studded with three rings of wickedly curved spikes slammed down into his shield, and if it hadn't been locked with the shields of the men to his left and right the blow probably would've broken his arm. Even so the force knocked him back half a step, fouling his efforts to counterattack. Along the line his men, having weathered the brunt of the initial charge with varying success, shifted position in unison, swords lashing out to counter. Blood flew red, demons bellowed, and the weight of the charge buckled the center back, breaking through in several places.

Marbrand heaved back against the felguard before it could get its mace positioned for another swing, shoving his shield aside and hacking downward with his broadsword. One of the arms went flying away, and as it stumbled back he stepped forward and drove his sword through its leg just above the massive greaves that protected it up to its knee. As it fell it was trampled by two more felguards surging forward. Both were going for him, so he backed away a step and as they converged to follow they fouled each other up; without room to swing those massive weapons of theirs the men to his right and left were able to step in and cut them down.

The line was broken once again, though. It was too much to ask that even the most disciplined troops keep ranks against a full demonic assault without second and third ranks to bolster them, but he didn't have the men for more than one rank. Instead his men were breaking off, sides mingling as the fights became more individual, small groups or one on one. Since there was no longer a line Marbrand allowed himself to break ranks too, charging forward to meet his enemies the way he constantly longed to do but wouldn't allow himself to.

He was effective. Too effective, perhaps. Enemies fell beneath his sword, to his shield with its sharpened steel rims, to his armored elbows and knees, and soon he was surrounded by enemies with all his allies behind, fighting to reach his side. The man to his left kept pace with him for a time, until a mo'arg's spinning saw hand hacked through his shield and then his left shoulder. Marbrand repaid the demon in kind, sending that devilish contraption spinning away with the arm up to its elbow attached.

Then the fighting grew too fierce for him to concentrate on allies or enemies, safe those directly in front of him or on all sides, raining blows down on his sturdy but battered plate armor, on his shield, on his broadsword, until he could no longer think of attacking, only staying alive. Perhaps he may have been able to hold his own against so many, were he not so tired. Were he not so very, very tired. He began stumbling, and once fell to the ground and might not have gotten up had he not crooked his arm desperately around an enemy's flail as the demon yanked it back for another blow.

What seemed hours later his men on the flanks finally fought through, drawing away most of his demonic enemies until only two remained, a massive blue felguard brute with a giant sword that seemed more like a long, flat mace with dull edges, and a smaller orange one that held a warhammer in either hand. Marbrand was able to sidestep far enough around so that the orange felguard blocked the blue brute from getting at him, and took advantage of the scant few seconds to charge forward. Two crushing blows on his shield sent numbness jolting up his arm and nearly knocked him to the ground, but he kept his feet planted and heaved, knocking both weapons aside long enough to hack across the felguard's midsection, spilling its guts.

The demon gave a bellow of pain and dropped its weapons, scrabbling with its hands to keep the foul reek of its innards from leaking out. A moment later it went down when the blue brute, impatient at the delay at getting at its enemy, hacked its fellow demon's head off and kicked the body aside. Then, with a monstrous bellow, it lifted its sword in both hands and swung it down in a devastating cut. Marbrand ducked away from that colossal swing, hunching one shoulder away from it even as he set his feet for his counterattack.

Not far enough. The giant flat blade struck his right pauldron with a deafening crunch, knocking him staggering a step, down to one knee, then sprawling at the sheer force of it. He was barely aware of his broadsword flying from his hand. As he rolled he shoved against the ground with his shield arm with all his strength, flipping awkwardly into an imbalanced crouch with one leg half beneath him. The felguard took a long stride forward, blade hissing through the air as it came back around, and he knew he wouldn't be able to set his feet before it hit him.

Instead he dropped straight to the ground, listening to it roar overhead. As soon as it passed he shoved onto his arms and knees and bulled forward, hitting the demon's heavy left shinguard with his shoulder leading, slamming near three hundred pounds of armored warrior into the massive creature. Off-balance from overextending itself on the swing, the felguard toppled forward, slamming Marbrand into the ground before he could haul himself out from beneath its weight. He twisted just as the creature released its heavy blade and two hands the size of hams darted for his throat.

They closed around his gorget, and the demon's strength was so great that he felt even that sturdy steel buckling under the squeezing pressure. But his shield was already in motion, the razor-sharp side rim coming in and around to hit the nearest wrist. He couldn't get the force in to hack off the felguard's hand completely, but it dug in enough to wedge in the bone, so when the demon roared and jerked backward onto its feet it brought his shield with him, jerking him forward as well.

He scrabbled at his belt for the ugly triangular-bladed dagger there, a four-sided pyramidal spike meant for punching through even the heaviest plate without snapping. As the felguard backpedaled he was pulled into the air off his feet, and he yanked himself forward with the shield still wedged in the demon's arm and slammed the weapon through the eyeslit of the full helm protecting its face. It punched in deep, all the way to the hilt.

The demon roared and spasmed, arm flinging outward, and his shield finally came free. Marbrand cursed as he found himself flying, nearly six feet, sprawling onto his hands and knees and lucky he wasn't on the ground again. By the time he managed to get stand and face his enemy the felguard was on the ground, twitching feebly in its death throes. He allowed himself a moment to stand there panting, his heart thudding painfully in his chest, before staggering over and retrieving his ugly black broadsword.

Turalyon knew, he was too old for this.

A flicker of motion at the corner of his eye drew his attention, and he slashed out savagely with his newly-reacquired weapon. The blow was caught on the haft of a giant, ugly spiked axe and turned aside, but before he could shield-rush his new enemy a harsh voice cursing made him hesitate. In that hesitation the armored figure brushed past him, swinging the axe around to knock aside a mo'arg's steel-pinchered hand that would've closed around Marbrand's head.

Blackfinger. His friend was the only human Marbrand knew large enough to don a felguard's armor and wield one of those massive weapons with any sort of effectiveness. And lacking the materials to adequately repair their own armor the big man had done just that. He wasn't the only one who'd taken up their enemy's superior equipment, but he was the only one who could use it effectively.

The mo'arg spun to follow Blackfinger as the big man circled, axe hacking at the massive sheet of hammered steel that wasn't attached to the demon's off hand but _was_ its off hand. Marbrand charged forward, so weary that he rested his broadsword on the top rim of his shield because his arm couldn't hold it steady enough; age perhaps, or maybe that they'd been fighting for so long without relief. The tip punched through the demon's thick hide where a lung would be on a human. Marbrand didn't get the chance to find out if the blow was a fatal one, however, because his attack knocked the mo'arg sprawling forward into the heavy sidewards sweep of Blackfinger's axe, darting over the lowering steel plate and chopping into the demon's neck. The blow was so powerful Marbrand felt it shivering through his blade and up his arm, and a moment later the demon's head flew away, still shrieking in rage and hatred for a few moments before death took it.

Marbrand yanked his broadsword out of the collapsing corpse and stared around for more enemies, but it seemed this attack was done, the few remaining demons fleeing around the giant boles of the trees surrounding them. Instead all he had to look at was devastation. A few enemies twitched here and there, and he could hear some of his soldiers screaming in pain or crying out for help. Jot, the closest thing they had to a surgeon, was doing his best to staunch the torrent of blood coming from Lefthand Lew's severed wrist; they'd have to start calling the man Righthand now, and maybe he'd finally learn to wield a weapon in his proper hand the way the gods intended, the sinister bastard. Lew constantly fucked up the shieldwall anyway, facing the opposite direction from everyone else. They always had to put him on the left end of the line where he was exposed and whoever was right of him always griped about being ass to ass. Better that than the alternative, though.

"Khadgar's whiskers, sir." Blackfinger said, staring around at the pile of enemies, many of them Marbrand hazily remembered hacking down. "Death rides you like a wanton woman."

Marbrand tore his eyes from the battlefield to stare at his friend. "Excuse me? Did you just say death rides me like a one ton woman?"

Blackfinger spluttered for a second. "What? Why the hell would I say-" he cut off when Marbrand burst into ragged laughter, and with a scowl spat off to the side. "Asshole."

"You have to admit," Marbrand said, shrugging his shoulders against the ache of carrying his armor and then beginning to fiddle with his shield's ties, "it makes a disturbing mental picture."

His friend shuddered. "Gods, she'd crush you beneath her weight. If I die with that as my last thing I think of I'm hunting you down in the afterlife."

Marbrand let loose another ragged laugh before staggering back to the shattered remnants of his line. "Form up!" he called. "Shout out the slugabeds back in camp and have them start donning armor, our shift is-"

Blackfinger's hand settled heavily on his shoulder, staggering him, and he whirled to look in the direction his friend was pointing. What he saw filled him with dread.

Shapes were materializing out of the evening mists, slipping around trees and coming forward in a line. Dozens of demons, hundreds even, coming from every side. It had to be all the enemy forces that remained; they must have decided enough was enough and it was time to make a final concerted push. He didn't know what had made them decide to break off their strategy of random small attacks to wear them down until they were too exhausted to lift a sword in their defense, but there could be no doubt what they intended.

"Gods far away," Blackfinger breathed. "There's still so many?"

Marbrand broke into a run towards the camp. "Fall back!" he shouted. "Get in line, everyone! Get those sleeping up and in line! _Get everyone in line_!"

His men were making an orderly withdrawal to camp, dragging or carrying the wounded and dead with them. He could hear the demon officers bellowing orders and cursing behind him, but they wouldn't blindly rush in with some hope of catching his people out of position. These mo'args and their felguard cousins weren't your average run of demons. In most fights against Magtheridon's forces Marbrand would've expected them to all rush him the first day, attacking until one side or the other was obliterated. And it would've been the demons, like as not; his people knew what they were about.

But these mo'args, they were devilishly clever, and tempered their bloodlust with patience. He actually saw tactics, of the sort you didn't expect unless there was an eredar, dreadlord, or shivarran leading the bastards. Sneak attacks, surprise attacks, attacks from air and ground and every which direction. He hadn't expected to see actual siege lines, a perimeter to keep his forces contained, but they'd done just that. And they'd drawn him into punishing traps the first few days, when he'd tried to charge the lines and bring the battle to them. Land mines, ambushes, flanking maneuvers. It wasn't his choice that had pinned them down desperately defending their camp.

But maybe this was a good thing. Maybe the damn sinister engineering bastards had finally made a mistake. In their place Marbrand would've kept on harrying his people night and day until they could finally just roll right over them, but his people weren't so exhausted and broken they'd buckle now. Not with a hope of victory in sight.

His people were drawing up a perfect line, the camp and the Wasteland Range at their backs so they only needed to form up on three sides rather than four. Their armor was ragged, their weapons ugly but sharp; their gear had been poor for years, now, Lem doing his best as armorer to keep everyone equipped, but failing as often as not. But they all had solid tower shields of this olemba wood from the tall trees that surrounded them. Shields sheathed, or at least banded or studded, with iron or steel or copper. A lot of those shields were hacked and splintered as well, but olemba wood was surprisingly tough and resilient.

May the demons learn today that humans were the same.

Men from camp were running along the front lines handing out short spears of the same wood, while those in camp, few of whom had had time to don their armor, were falling into the second ranks with longer spears to make a solid hedgehog. Even felguards in their heavy armor would be punished by charging those lines.

Marbrand moved to the center of the line, out in front. "Listen up, men!" he shouted. "You think it's bad news that these bastards are attacking us now with all their strength? You'd be wrong. Today we finish this, and them, and we can finally get out of this stinking camp and find ourselves some real meat, a good meal for the first time in a week!"

The men stared at him in confusion, and Marbrand fought the urge to curse. They were exhausted, all of them, sleeping scant hours to spell each other between attacks. More exhausted than he'd wanted to see. Maybe the mo'args weren't attacking prematurely after all. "These demons aren't soldiers!" he snapped. "They're wild dogs, throwing themselves onto our spears. They sent the orcs to Azeroth to do their dirty work because they were afraid to face us. To face humans, to face the human spirit that nothing can conquer. So let them come, and we'll build an earthwork of their corpses to fight behind until every stinking one of them is dead." He lifted his ugly broadsword, shaking it fiercely. "For Azeroth!"

The men roared the words back, and as if they'd found that human spirit he spoke of they suddenly didn't seem so weary, so uncertain. Marbrand looked at them and felt the old familiar ache in his chest, the one he never let show.

Turalyon had picked well for his expedition. He'd picked damn well.

Blackfinger was moving to his own position in line when Marbrand called him back. "You'll stand at my right side, old friend."

Blackfinger stared at him, surprised. "But the right flank-"

"Timothy will command the flank." Marbrand lowered his voice so only his friend could hear. "Look how our enemy positions themselves. The center cannot afford to buckle."

Blackfinger glanced back at the demons falling into line, then grimaced. "Beside you. And if we fail today, may we be the last two standing."

"As at Garvan's Breach," he said, slamming his shield up against his friend's, and nearly falling flat on his back as Blackfinger returned the gesture. "If nothing else let Danath and Khadgar know we died well."

The big man's expression soured. "You think they would've come. They can't be so far."

"No," Marbrand said firmly. "We'll not speak of that. Wishes and expectations make poor allies on the battlefield. Best trust to the ones standing beside us."

Blackfinger nodded, and they were grimly silent as they fell into line. Behind them the others did as well, everyone settling into their positions just outside the camp. Few, so few. Ten years of fighting and fleeing were unforgiving, and these last few days had been equally so.

An expectant silence fell as everyone found their places at last, and then there was nothing left to do but wait and wonder what the foul creatures would throw at them this final time.

Marbrand was afraid they'd have something especially vicious.

That first day the demons had wheeled up two infernal catapults and flung, well, infernals. That had been devastating like few attacks since had been, as four of the giant behemoths of animate burning stone were successively slammed into their lines. At first the infernals had appeared no more than balls of catapult stone immersed in fel flames, crushing men beneath them with such force that they made small craters in the ground. But then out of those craters the terrible things had pulled themselves and begun wreaking havoc.

The first day, and nearly the last. He'd lost nearly two score men to those infernals, including their one remaining cleric, Alzhan, and the twin conjurers Terrence and Trystan. The spellcasters working in concert had managed to bring down three of the things with localized blizzards and holy fire, the only sort of fire that could touch the infernals, and the fourth had been brought down by a pile of men burning to death even as they hacked it to pieces.

Those screams haunted his brief periods of rest, jerking him awake like no battleground noises heard beyond the camp ever did.

He tore his thoughts away from that horrific memory. No infernals had landed upon them since. Perhaps those four were the only ones the mo'arg possessed, although the two infernal catapults still launched burning stone. But burning stone seemed like nothing in comparison. And while the demons had used other tactics, employed other horrors, most had been more mundane. The second day the felguards on the front line had born the heads of his fallen men strapped on their weapons, or even their whole bodies cruelly transfixed on poles like gruesome standards. Demons had come pouring down the rocky hillside at the back of the camp, usually more to their own ruin than to the camp's.

And nearly as vicious as the infernals, and far more horrific, the sappers. From the way the felguards were clumping in groups with the mo'args screaming orders and making frantic preparations behind he had a feeling he'd be seeing those sadistic little bastards again today. No surprise there; unlike the infernals, those dumpy little imps seemed endless in numbers.

Then with surprising suddenness a shivering roar like nothing he'd ever heard before shook the air, and the demons were pouring forward still clumped in their groups.

"Be ready, men," he called. "We've seen this before."

And sure enough the felguards were no more than twenty yards away when they split apart, revealing the gan'args in their midst. This was just the way the demons had employed this tactic before, hiding their sappers in the midst of the massive warriors to surprise them. But there was a new twist this time, for instead of darting forward ahead of the felguards to wreak their devastation the little bastards lagged behind with the main force. Marbrand was confused for just a moment, all it took for the felguards to begin picking up the misshapen little demons and setting their feet to throw.

_Shit_. "Shields!" he roared, dropping to his knees and angling his shield with the bottom edge braced against the ground. Behind him Nimble Dan lifted his own shield straight overhead to cover them both, and behind him Halls did the same, slightly overlapping the shields for added strength. All along the line his companions similarly completed the turtle formation in a series of metallic clicks and thuds. In position all Marbrand could do was wait, eyes straining to see through the narrow slit between the top of his shield and the bottom of Dan's, watching the gan'args hurdling towards them, flung by the powerful felguards. Their demented laughter filled the air. Swearing under his breath he lowered his head, shut his eyes, and braced for what was to come.

It didn't take long.

The wave of explosions rocked the line, even with all shields locked as they were, and he could imagine them clutching their lit bundles of explosives as they thudded into the shields, eyes blazing with insanity that would make even a goblin sapper jealous. For a moment the concussive noise even drowned out the felguard bellows, gan'arg laughter, and the shouts of his own men. Then the explosions died away and he could hear the screams.

He pushed to his feet, clutching his sword in a faltering grip, but he had no chance to look down the lines and see the devastation the sappers had wreaked. In fact he had only an instant to brace himself before the felguard charge struck.

The explosions had torn through the cohesiveness of the line, stunning everyone and putting their shields out of position, and as the line of charging demons hit the line, some not even using their weapons but merely throwing their considerable bulk against the shields, Marbrand found himself staggering back, fouling up Dan behind him as the man tried to shift his spear. As far as he could see without their shields locked the entire line visibly buckled, only Blackfinger beside him remaining in position. The big man's bellows joined those of the felguards dying transfixed to spears, and Marbrand struggled to get his feet beneath him and shoved back with his shield, pushing aside a blow from a colossal metal staff that numbed his arm to the elbow and hacking with his broadsword. The felguard snarled and reeled away, leaving a horny hand and its heavy staff behind.

Another soon took its place.

Oddly, Marbrand had expected this final attack to feel different from the others. But on the front lines, blocking attacks and returning them, guarding Blackfinger's flank and having his flank in turn guarded by Hobbs, everything quickly fell into the same nightmarish familiarity of the other attacks. With the exception of far more concerted savagery from the demons, and the cries of pain that were his men going down. He could hear Hanis the Beast to the back of the center line, screaming directions that were barely heard above the noise of battle. The center had buckled in two places, and where the right flank met the center the corner was nearly destroyed by the gan'arg explosions before the battle was even joined.

He responded to the orders along with the others, swinging around to cover the men in the second rank as they turned and hit the demons who'd broken through from behind. Vicious jagged wheels of spinning metal soared overhead and cut into the ranks farther down, flung by the contraptions that had replaced the hands of a few of the mo'arg officers.

For a moment everything teetered, the sheer ferocity of the demon charge nearly overwhelming them as he'd feared. Then the discipline and training of his men kicked in. Breaches became strong points, the line flexed and shifted as areas not under fierce attack shifted to the aid of those that were. And before he knew it the air was shivering with another of those unfamiliar deafening roars and the demons were withdrawing wildly, some actually turning their backs as they ran.

"Hold!" Marbrand screamed. "We'll regroup and advance in an orderly fashion!"

This time his orders were followed, and the line reformed around the ragged holes created by the dead and dying. It was a smaller box of three sides that closed together as the demons began disappearing into the trees, with far fewer men in the second rank as they replaced those who'd fallen in the first.

"Is that it?" Blackfinger demanded. He laughed in disbelief. "Is that the final attack we've been fearing?"

Marbrand was in no mood to laugh. They'd lost nearly thirty men to that charge, and slain far less than that number of demons. Usually they gave a far better accounting, sometimes killing as much as half again as many of the felguards and mo'args as they lost of their own. Again the demon officers' tactics had been sound, throwing their line in disarray and striking, then withdrawing as soon as they recovered and pushed back. If the bastards had another batch of gan'args to toss over like demented footballs the next charge might break them entirely.

That loud, otherworldly wailing noise sounded again, and the felguards began regrouping at the edge of the tree line, forming loose, disorganized ranks. They almost looked more like they were vying for a spot near the front, like spectators at a grand procession.

"We should strike," Blackfinger growled. "Hit them before they reorganize."

Marbrand didn't even dignify that with an answer. The shieldwall didn't go chasing after enemies, it waited for those enemies to come to it. Did his friend expect demons mad with bloodlust to learn that lesson better than the Sons of Lothar?

His friend seemed to hear his silent rebuke. He shifted on his place in the line, looking sullen. "They're going to hit us with another wave of those Light-damned cackling bastards. It'll be as useless as the last. By third moon's set we'll have these demons broken, or I'm an orc."

About that time the wailing noise sounded, loud enough now to drown out all other noise. Marbrand was about to shout the command to stand ready when he staggered.

No, not weariness. He may sway on his feet, but that felt more like the ground jumped beneath him. A low murmuring rose around him, and he was just getting his balance once more when the ground jumped again, more noticeably this time. As if a colossal hammer had just struck it, or a small earthquake. The wailing noise came again, on the heels of another tremor, and with horror he realized that the two events were connected.

Something was coming.

He wasn't the only one who realized it. The murmuring along the line had become shouts, useless questions and even more useless answers, speculation. Night was fully upon them, but night was never dark on Outland with the planet-moon that took up half the horizon constantly in the sky, radiating light. Dimmer, perhaps, but like just before sunrise rather than full noon. And in that light he could see, directly ahead of their center off in the distance, the trees swaying.

"Gods above, what've they conjured now?" Blackfinger muttered. "Have they made alliance with the gronn, Gruul or one of his sons?"

Marbrand set his feet, locking his shield with Danis at his side as Blackfinger raised his axe in readiness and the earth continued to shake underfoot. The demons remained where they were, and now there could be no doubt they were spectators. "Whatever comes through those trees," he shouted, "hold your ground!"

That cry, like the wails of a thousand tormented souls, tore the air again, so loud that for a moment his hearing failed and all he heard was a distant ringing in his ears, turning the scene surreal. In the midst of that deafening noise the colossal _crack_ of a tree breaking barely registered, at least until one of the unbelievably tall trees directly in front of him began to fall. It seemed to take forever, as men screamed and pushed against each other to dodge aside. Yet somehow between one instant and the next it crashed, even the impact scarcely shaking the ground more than it already heaved beneath his feet. The huge trunk landed among the lines, crushing one man beneath it and pinning another's leg, his mouth open in agonized shrieks that never reached Marbrand's ears. The leafy canopy of the tree fell behind the lines, like a wall to prevent retreat, and he wondered if it could be intentional. The deafening wail faded, the ringing in his ears subsiding just enough that he could hear the screams of his men, the horrible sounds of the demons cheering.

Then two more trees closer than the first were crashing in either direction, shoved aside like a man wading through reeds, and the monstrosity came into view through the darkness and mists.

"Gods of Azeroth far away," Blackfinger moaned at his side, the words sounding as if they came from some vast distance. Marbrand couldn't have answered even if he'd been so inclined.

It had to be at least forty feet tall and nearly as wide, a construct slightly resembling a goblin shredder, if a goblin shredder was made of demon-wrought iron and mechanisms and weighed a thousand tons. Stubby, massive legs carried it forward in a piercing squeal of gears, equally stubby and heavy arms held eerily motionless at its sides as it approached. Its head was tiny in comparison to the rest of it, bearing a stylized demon's visage with a wide grin from which fel flames belched. Half a dozen huge pipes jutted from its back, belching black smoke to create a thick cloud above it, wreathing the area in shadow.

Marbrand had always respected the Burning Legion's power. Only a fool held endless waves of creatures consumed by reckless hatred in contempt. But this was the first time he'd ever truly feared them. Not the fear of battle, or the fear of dying, but the fear of complete and utter helplessness.

Men were running, and he didn't blame them. "Hold, men, for Azeroth!" he screamed, and halfway through the words were drowned out by another deafening wail from the machine.

Now he knew why the demons had finally decided on a committed attack. They hadn't been waiting until his men were worn down and broken, as he'd supposed, they'd merely been keeping them pinned here until they finished building this hellish construct. No wonder their cheers rang loud and they leapt for joy on the sidelines, well out of the path of the forty-foot monstrosity, waiting for it to sweep over them, as unstoppable as the destruction of Draenor itself.

They couldn't stand against this. Their only hope was to flee. Up the rocky slope behind the camp and into the hills, where this thing couldn't follow. Let the demons hound their every step, at least that was an enemy he could fight.

The sound died away, leaving his ears ringing in an eerily silent world peopled by men whose mouths yawned wide in silent screams. Then the sound came crashing in, loud enough to stagger him. He was about to order the retreat to the hills, mustering his voice to speak over the din, when out of nowhere flames washed over the demonic construct's head and upper chest. The thing paused midstep, twitching slightly in what could almost have been confusion.

Marbrand jerked his eyes upward, tracing the source of the spell, and saw a huge winged shape circling overhead. For a moment he stared at it in shock. He'd seen nether drakes a few times, but always from a distance, and thankfully so; many who saw the shadowy dragons from up close became prey rather than spectators.

But why would a nether drake be joining this fight? And was that blast of fire the drake's breath attack? He knew little of dragons, but enough to know that they didn't come swooping in to rescue mortals, and they were notoriously uninterested in joining a fight for the joy of it.

The demonic construct spun smoothly, attempting to keep its front to the circling drake, but it couldn't move quick enough. A spat of lead slugs hissed through the air from an odd swiveling tube on its shoulder, tracing after the winged creature in a line of glowing fire, but didn't come close to hitting it.

Then the drake broke away and began to climb, and he caught a glimpse of two figures on its back. Riders, by the gods; he didn't even know it was _possible _to tame a drake. His disbelief grew as one of those figures dropped, plunging towards the ground, while the other guided the nether drake away to safety. Around him men were cursing in equal shock.

The figure was dropping straight towards the mo'arg's monstrosity, and fire was streaming from his hands as he prepared another spell, forming a tail of scarlet flame behind him.

The figure collided against the middle of the construct's chest in a burst of flame, and for a moment the sight was awe-inspiring. But the metal titan didn't even flinch, and instead it was the figure who bounced away, out of control, the penumbra of flames around him flickering into nothing.

The demonic construct gave another warbling cry and went after the figure, one massive arm raising to spew flames from a nozzle affixed to its wrist.

. . . . .

A fel reaver.

By nonexistent gods, he hated mo'args. He'd never even met the sick fucks and he hated them. Only they would be so mad as to create the monstrosity before him. He'd only ever heard of constructs such as this, but seeing it for himself raised his estimation of Burning Legion engineering to far above goblins or even gnomes, perhaps in its own way as impressive as ethereal or naaru.

And lucky him, he got to destroy it.

In all the books he'd read philosophers were fond of insisting that it was far easier to destroy than to create. But how did one make such calculations when the thing created was meant to destroy?

Nex dove away from the stream of fire, feeling its outer edge wash over him like an oven blast. When he came up his new brown cloak was smoking, and he cursed and slapped at the smoldering edges; he couldn't keep his clothes in good condition for the life of him.

The liquid fire spraying from the fel reaver's wrist nozzle followed him as he broke into a sprint towards it, jerking this way and that as the mechanisms in the giant arm jolted and caught. It was good construction, but it wasn't great, and that slowed the attack enough that he was easily able to keep ahead of it.

As he went he glanced up long enough to see Montfere winging away to safety on the drake, providing one less thing to worry about; the last thing he wanted was his ride home burned to a crisp in demonic flames. Or the boy for that matter. It had been adventure enough just flying the mindless beast here under the control of the dragonslaver's whip. They'd gone low and well out of their way, making every effort to stay hidden, with him straining the range limits of his second sight for any sign of Brightpoint tracking him with vengeful intent. Being young, Montfere had thought it was exciting rather than an immense hassle, but to his relief Brightpoint had made no appearance; he might have been able to defeat the large nether drake, but it wasn't a victory he relished.

The flames cut off after only a few seconds, the fel reaver seeming to realize its massive arm would never be able to match his speed. That might suggest the fuel feeding that liquid fire was finite and too costly to waste in futile attacks, a useful fact he stored away. Instead the tube on the construct's right shoulder swiveled to track him, far swifter than the fel reaver's arm. Fire spat from it, launching a line of lead slugs like a stream of cherry stones he'd once seen an old toothless beggar launch in rapid fire. He surged forward, increasing his speed, and barely managed to stay ahead of that deadly hail.

Accompanying that attack came another bellowing cry from the fel reaver, and as he ran Nex yanked his blindfold down to cover his ears as well. It didn't help much, but anything was better than his eardrums being blasted by that deafening racket unchecked.

So. Flames, a gun-like turret that fired as many as ten slugs a second, massive limps to stomp or swipe and the slightest graze from one would probably break him like a toy. And disorienting noise. Nex focused on the plating across the fel reaver's chest and head and saw that his previous attacks had had almost no effect, a few discoloring scorches here and there and nothing more. He could try shadow spells next, and if need be his chaos bolt, but first it was probably a good idea to see how the thing fared against physical attacks. His reserves weren't limitless, and his Illidari stone had yet to recharge.

Thirty torpedoes. He'd gimped himself in this battle to create thirty godsdamn torpedoes.

A tree provided momentary cover, the lead slugs chewing into its other side but coming nowhere close to penetrating almost twenty feet of hardwood trunk. He could see the fel reaver's arm already swinging into motion, possibly with enough power to simply plough through even a tree this big, but it bought him a few seconds. He opened the left flap of his cloak, holding it taut. On the inner surface he'd sewn the dimensional pocket portal's cloth, and he opened it now and reached inside, withdrawing three torpedoes from the stacks that filled the space within more than halfway full. He'd hoped to have double this amount, but it would suffice.

The arm crunched into the wood, not tearing through but instead breaking the trunk and sending the tree falling towards him. He dove aside, transferring two of the torpedoes into his left hand, and as he came to his feet with the fel reaver in view he launched the one in his right hand at the thing's knee joint.

Punch through plate armor, the dwarf who'd sold him his first torpedoes had claimed. And Nex had enchanted these with demonslaying enchants, using in part the fel iron's corrupt power and for the rest a portion of his own. Costly, but he'd only enchanted a few dozen to begin.

Enchant or no, the torpedo clanged off the joint, doing no more than putting a thin scratch on the black metal. It could be the weapon had struck flat instead of one of the ends digging in, and he'd have more success with a solid blow, but he wasn't willing to take that chance; he could throw a hundred of the things and never be sure whether it was the armor defeating them or his own failure to aim properly.

Instead he swapped one to either hand and darted forward, leaping into a forward roll to stay ahead of a renewed barrage of lead slugs. As he approached one of the fel reaver's arms swung, not directly for him but to the right in case he tried to dodge that way. Meanwhile the construct's right leg kicked forward to block off a dodge to his left. With the lead slugs following close behind that significantly limited his ability to dodge, but he'd have to deal with that when the time came.

As he closed the last ten feet he surged forward to his best speed and leapt into the air, curling slightly to put all his momentum into the torpedoes in his hands. He struck the heavy metal plating over the fel reaver's left leg with a clang that sent a jolt through his entire body, so much force that he was afraid his arms were going to break. Then he was again falling away, doing his best to duck into a roll and dodge the leg as it swung at him in response to his attack. He found himself on the other side of the fel reaver, the thing slow in its attempts to turn and face him once more. But the turret on its shoulder had no such problems, and as he put some space between himself and the demonic construct he found himself once more evading the stream of lead slugs. This time they caught up to him twice and he was forced to dodge aside until he could reach the trunk of a tree and, aided by levitation, sprint up the side of it until he reached the lowest branch.

The fel reaver's leg armor had completely repelled his attack. The torpedoes hadn't done more than scratch the surface. What was worse, he'd felt his demonslaying enchantments fade and then vanish uselessly as they'd come in contact with the infernal machine. Its armor was, at least to anything he could manage, completely impenetrable, and more than that resisted the influence of harmful spells. Unless he wanted to try exerting more of his limited power, to an attack that might still fail, his only option was to try to attack the fel reaver higher up. It was possible the thing's armor was thickest around its legs, where most of the attacks would come against it, and higher up there might be some weakness he could exploit. A small hope, given what he could sense with his second sight, but he had to explore the option.

Even so he smiled as he fought his impossible battle. At long last he was finally free to do what he'd wished to do ever since coming to Outland. To fight the foe his master had denied him before, to unleash himself against the creatures he hated. This group of demons was not large, admittedly, pitiful in truth when compared to Magtheridon's forces in Shadowmoon Valley and Hellfire Peninsula, but it was good enough.

They'd made him a toy to play with. His only regret was that he'd wasted the Illidari stone on blacksmithing work when he could've finally used it for a worthwhile purpose.

As the fel reaver warbled once more he sprinted along the branch towards it, watching one of its heavy hands lift to bring its flame to bear on him. He was running a straight trajectory, and he had much farther to go than the fel reaver's arm in its swing upward, so he hadn't covered more than three-quarters of the distance before the flames were gouting at him. He had a choice between attempting to shield himself and jump through the flames, or leaping off the branch.

Damn. He couldn't afford to waste his energy defensively when he so desperately needed it offensively. At the same time he didn't even know if he _could_ block those flames, because he didn't know what they were. They hadn't been in use long before, and he'd foolishly not thought to use his second sight to analyze them. But it wasn't the flames that decided him, but the turret that spat its lead slugs at him even as the flames roared out, a concerted attack. He turned his sprint into a dive off the branch, feeling the whoosh of flames overhead and the whine of those slugs tracking him almost as if it had anticipated his actions. His second sight told him he could weather most of the brunt of those flames with an energy shield, but it was what he was learning of the source of those lead slugs that was really troubling him.

The gun or turret or whatever it was that loosed that stream of lead slugs was in constant motion. Not random motion, either, but deliberately tracking. It did not move quickly, but that bothered him all the same; there was something odd about its reactions to his own movements.

As he was falling he hurled a torpedo at it, but as he'd expected even the solid blow from the heavy double-pointed weapon barely dented it; the turret was reinforced by heavy armor, which might explain why it pivoted horizontally and vertically so slowly. And speaking of that pivot as he fell it altered its movement, so that he saw a stream of those slugs tearing towards the place he'd pass through.

Nex cursed and used levitation to shove himself aside, towards the nearest tree. There was a low-hanging branch, thick as he was tall, and he hit it along the side and managed to roll up onto it and back to his feet. Once his footing was secure he stood there a moment, staring at the monstrosity before him.

He thought he finally understood the oddity of its movements, the way it seemed to instantly respond to everything he did. As a mechanism it was limited by how fast its motors or servos or whatever could move its gigantic limbs, how fast the turret could be physically swung to follow his movements.

But at the same time its reactions were instantaneous, in a way he would have almost called precognition. But it wasn't. The simple fact was that delays existed for a human's movements, even the fastest and best trained of humans. Between detecting the danger through some sense, usually sight, to deciding how to respond, to sending the orders for that response to the body, the brain had a delay of between .5 and 2 seconds. This demonic construct had no such delay; whatever controlled it, it reacted almost instantaneously, which allowed for swift defenses and counterattacks even with its slower limbs.

He leapt again, scarcely dodging a spray of lead slugs that tore into the branch and tree trunk where he'd been, then followed him as he landed on a higher branch and began hopping branch to branch until he was in another tree, the trunk between him and that frightening gun for the moment. But he couldn't stay here long, he knew, for the fel reaver's colossal arms could tear right through these trees and crush him.

Was there some way he could take advantage of knowing that the construct reacted instantly to things? He could calculate the speed of its responses now that he knew the limits of how fast the limbs could move and the weaponry could lock on and fire. It meant he'd have to be the one to constantly act, because he couldn't afford to trust his own delayed reactions when the fel reaver was concerned.

Another worry was that the thing might begin anticipating his movements, so rather than reacting it would act ahead. He might dodge and find that deadly hail of slugs tearing through the space he moved to. Even with shields he couldn't hope to survive such a barrage for long. Which meant he'd have to take the thing down quickly, before it "learned" enough about him to anticipate his moves.

There was only one thing he could think of to do. He didn't like it much at all, but what choice was there?

His second sight showed him the fel reaver's left arm sweeping towards the trunk with devastating force, and he dropped off the branch and began falling just before it struck. Above him the tree exploded, sending shrapnel raining around him and pattering against his armor, even as the top half of the tree flew twenty feet to smash against the canopy of another tree, tangling against it and hanging drunkenly. As the arm swept overhead Nex levitated upwards with a powerful push, slamming up against its underside. Fetched up against the arm was right where he wanted to be; the fel reaver could smash him against something at any time, but for the moment the construct's bulk protected him from its own weaponry.

He eased off his levitation and began climbing up the arm, making for the elbow joint. Even forty foot monstrosities armored in thick sheets of impenetrable plating had to follow certain truths, and one of those was that armor was always weakest at the joints, where it had to be able to bend and flex.

The fel reaver gave another warbling cry, so deafening from only ten feet away that the sheer force of it nearly shook him free.

. . . . .

The distraction of the fel reaver by the odd newcomer, and the fact that the demons had withdrawn to allow it to attack them, gave Marbrand's weary men a much needed chance to rest. A few were so tired they actually sat or knelt on the ground, and no amount of cursing from their officers could get them back up. Marbrand could only hope he could count on them to do so when an attack finally came, as it must.

But for now, somehow, impossibly, their benefactor was keeping a step ahead of that mo'arg construct. The flames had licked out but twice, never coming close to the lithe figure, and even the swifter gun with its lead slugs couldn't keep up. Marbrand could only stare in awe at the incredible grace their new ally, or at least the demon's new enemy, displayed. He had seen the elven rangers in their fighting, using longbows and daggers and never taking hurt even in melee combat with the orcs, dancing aside from blows that would've broken them like twigs. This person who fought the monstrosity showed that same sort of agility.

Was it possible Lady Windrunner had sent help? The elves had been roaming far afield in Nagrand last he heard, but some may have been in the area. The rangers of Silvermoon were reluctant to remember their oaths to the humans who had aided them so long ago in the Troll Wars, as the Alliance had learned at the beginning of the Second War to their dismay. Yet they had accompanied the expedition to Outland, and if it had been a long, long time since he'd had any contact with them surely they couldn't pass up the chance to battle demons, even if it meant fighting beside Marbrand's men.

Such contemplations were short-lived, however, because when he tore his gaze from the demonic construct he could see that the mo'args and felguards, impatient with their machine's distraction, were forming ranks to attack once more. It wouldn't do to forget that even though that monstrosity could probably kill them all, it was still but a toy in the mo'arg's hands, and they didn't need it to still be dangerous.

"To your feet!" he bellowed. "The demons are forming up!" The last part of his words were drowned out by the construct's deafening wail, and he had to wait until it was finished to repeat his words desperately, watching the felguards hefting their weapons and preparing to charge. It didn't take them long.

His men were finally coming to their feet, reforming the shieldwall with weary determination. As the felguards charged, once more in those clumps that could be hiding gan'args, Marbrand spared a glance for the construct still battling their benefactor. he would have to keep his eye on the thing; its inclusion into the battle was something he'd need to be aware of.

But to his horror their benefactor was gone. The forty-foot metal behemoth was swiveling at the waist, its legs rooted firmly, as one giant arm flailed wildly against everything it came in contact with. Then, giving that up, it gave another warble and turned. The felguard line shuddered to a halt as the ground began shaking beneath them, and around Marbrand he heard his men moaning in fear.

Without the distraction of the agile figure, the fel reaver was coming for them once more.

. . . . .

All around him was noise, heat, and an acidic reek that would've brought tears to his eyes if he still had eyes; third hell, it might even have blinded him if he wasn't already blind. His skin certainly felt like it was on fire, and wherever his flesh was exposed it was starting to hiss and smoke.

He was wedged amidst bundled lines of wires, cords, and hoses, with the armor plating at his back and the massive piston that drove the fel reaver's left arm not two feet in front of him, driving up and down with such force that it would've literally crushed him flat had he gotten caught in it. Getting through the flexible ridged metal that protected the elbow joint had proved to be easier than he'd feared. It couldn't be too thick or it would've hampered the limb's movement, so it was less than an inch he had to burn through, channeling incinerating flame through one finger to carve a hole big enough to squeeze inside.

He'd had to scramble around to the other side of the elbow twice to avoid being smashed, first against a tree and then against the fel reaver's hip on the backswing. And then squeezing through the hole he'd made the jagged lip of metal had torn a deep gash down his side, ruining his cloak in the process most likely. But now here he was.

Logically speaking, the only safe place to be around an unstoppable behemoth was inside the thing. The fel reaver's own impermeable armor protected him from the vicious flamethrowers and slug spitter, and he very much doubted its mo'arg creators had thought to put defenses inside it. Even if they had, he didn't think there'd be room for them.

There was barely room for him.

Somewhere near what he hoped was the shoulder joint he passed a knot where bundles of wiring, tubing, and suspension cords came together in what looked to be an important nexus. Passing close to it was a much larger tube, perhaps large enough to squeeze through. When he cut into it, using the same trick he'd used to get through the elbow armor, scalding oil sprayed out and drenched him. Some sort of coolant perhaps, or maybe fuel. Ironically enough he actually feared it less than the strange acidic mist lubricating the air outside, for all the pain it caused. He fed more power to his demon skin and threw a shield around himself, then slithered into the tube against the flow of oil.

Once he was safely inside he thrust his hand out the hole and slagged that nexus of vital wires and conduits with a sustained burst of incinerating flames.

The fel reaver jerked, loosing another cry that was actually much quieter now that he was nestled in its depths, and he was slammed against the edge of the tube headfirst. Stars flashed across his vision, which was odd since he didn't actually have vision and he felt that should've been impossible, but the blackness where his sight had been became dull throbbing red with blinding flashes through it for several moments.

Then nature energy carried by the metal of the tube washed through him in a torrent, stiffening every muscle and clenching his teeth so hard he almost bit through his tongue. He'd seen such energy wielded by orcish shamans in lightning bolts and the like, and the natural lightning bolts that dashed against the ground in a storm, as well as in the gnomish gadgets he'd seen passing through Ironforge and the underground tunnel project connecting it to Stormwind. Why such nature energy should be found here in this devilish construct was a mystery to him.

Unfortunately he had greater concerns than solving that mystery. The energy flowed through him unrelenting, his muscles refusing to respond, and after a few seconds he felt his heart shuddering to a halt in a blaze of pain that sent stabbing jolts of agony and numbness spreading from his chest. Desperately he drew upon shadows, upon his own power, to replace that vital natural function. For a moment he was rocked with the fear that he was teetering on the edge of true undeath, but that worry drifted away with all others as blackness closed around him.

His last thought before unconsciousness took him was that the fel reaver's creators had put in internal defenses after all.

. . . . .

For the moment the battle came to a shuddering halt as humans and demons alike leapt out of the path of the marauding metal behemoth. Not all were quick enough, however, and one knot of his soldiers was partially trampled as a massive leg came down in their midst, then several went flying as it lifted. Another knot and the few felguards they were still fighting were engulfed in a spray of liquid flame from the nozzle on the monstrosity's right wrist, and the shrieks coming from within that conflagration, demon and human both, had to be among the most horrible things Marbrand had ever heard.

For a moment unreasonable terror struck him. He hated fire, and for good reason. He'd felt the agony of his own skin burning, the searing agony that didn't go away for months as his burns healed, not even the Light wielded by priests sufficient to ease the pain. His face, chest, and left arm were still ridged with numb scar tissue that would never heal, disfiguring him and constantly trying to stiffen his shield arm and slow him.

He couldn't face those fires. Felguards he would stand against without hesitation, and even the thought of being hacked apart filled him with only the usual fear. But he couldn't stand the thought of being burned again. He didn't even go near campfires if he could avoid it, and demons were among his most hated enemies for the fact that so many of them wielded flames. In the infernal attack during the first day it hadn't been those flaming animate stone creatures that had nearly broken the lines, but the fact that his men had been forced to watch their own commander go rigid with terror; and if their commander, why not them?

Even mages he looked upon with distrust, particularly the ones proficient in fire spells.

He didn't know when he broke, but the next thing Marbrand knew he was running, his back to the demonic construct while he looked over one shoulder for any sign that the monstrosity was aiming one of those horrific flamethrowers his way. He could hear shouts of terror from the men around him, many of whom also fled at seeing their commander again unmanned. A few even threw down their weapons and were cut down from behind by pursuing demons.

Damnit. Damnit to all the hells and back to Azeroth his home. He was a coward, a godsdamn coward, and his men were dying for it. He'd failed them, he'd failed them all, and he cursed himself even as he knew he would never turn and face that horrible construct. He slammed against a mo'arg in his headlong flight, sending them both crashing to the ground with a pinchered hand scraping against his breastplate like a horrible spider. He rolled, losing his sword, shaking his shield as if trying to fling it away as well. Somehow he landed on his hands and knees and started to rise, but another deafening wail from the construct knocked him back to the ground. He huddled there, unwilling to move. His soldier's instincts screamed that the mo'arg was likely getting ready to tear his armor off and send its monstrous pincher plunging into his chest to rip out his heart, but he couldn't move.

Then the lurid light of flames in the darkness became something different, a strobing blue-white, and the strangeness of it shook him out of his fear enough to lift his head and look back.

The demonic construct stood rooted in place, left arm hanging limp while the right one scrabbled at its own chest as if scratching at an itch. Blue sparks danced around it, causing it to jerk each time one jumped, and around it his men were managing to withdraw unnoticed while mo'args and gan'args rushed forward, perhaps with some intent to repair it, though Marbrand couldn't imagine what might've damaged the monstrous thing. Just as they reached it the monstrosity lurched into motion again, crushing a cluster of gan'args with the first step it took. But it was more than just its arm that was damaged, it seemed, for the thing began lurching around in a huge circle, left leg as stiff and unresponsive as its arm.

Only a few feet from Marbrand the mo'arg he'd crashed into was standing still, eyes riveted on the scene. Its pincher was twitching randomly, while on the other arm a strange angular rod with a wickedly sharp hooked point was spinning around and around. An odd lens mechanism strapped over the demon's right eye was extending and contracting as if the thing was trying to get a better view.

Looking at the demon, Marbrand's anger and shame at himself suddenly burned brighter than his fear, and he shoved to his feet and drew his triangular dagger once more, hurling himself forward to punch the blade through the back of the mo'arg's skull. The demon went down with a roar, twitching, and Marbrand stumbled upright and looked around wildly for his sword.

"Regroup!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. "Gods damnit, regroup while that thing's distracted or damaged or whatever the hell it is!"

His soldiers, some still fighting fiercely and some standing and staring openmouthed at the construct, scattered all over the battlefield, jerked into motion at his words and began rallying to him from all sides. Marbrand found his sword and clutched it grimly in a grip nearly dead from fatigue. The demons had recovered from their shock quicker than he had, and they were already pressing forward once more.

The fighting didn't last much longer, but it was brutal. The felguards were fresh, far stronger than his own men even at their best, and they fought with their usual demonic fury. Courage and discipline held his men in line far longer than it should have, but the demons were all pushing forward at once, now, and he'd already lost so many of his soldiers. The line broke at the right flank, then at the left, and even as Marbrand flailed at the demons before him, so weary he could barely swing his sword, the center began to buckle.

Then the demonic construct stopped its frenetic one-legged circling and went still, a deafening wail cutting off halfway through with eerie abruptness. The felguards gave this no notice but the mo'args began to back away from the battle, looking over. Marbrand did as well.

Like a puppet with its strings cut the monstrosity went perfectly limp, teetering on one leg. After a few agonizing seconds of hope mingled with stupid weariness it gave a metallic groan and tilted, tilted, and crashed into the ground with such force that half the demons and humans were thrown from their feet.

Marbrand struggled to rise again, and when he managed to get to one knee he saw that the mo'args were fleeing, the lumpy shapes of a few remaining gan'args with them. The felguards roared and attacked once more, but they seemed shaken by the loss of their war machine and the flight of their leaders.

"Attack!" Marbrand screamed, even as he lunged forward and slammed his broadsword into the belly of a yellow felguard hacking at Blackfinger's huge spiked axe. Light of Azeroth. Blessed redeeming Light. He didn't know how it had happened, but victory was in sight.

The felguards seemed to realize it too. Their attack faltered, and then some of them began fleeing as well, following their mo'arg cousins. The ones remaining fought desperately, and took a heavy toll before they were cut down, but in the end his men had the field, the only demons that remained wounded and dying.

Marbrand wanted nothing more than to sink to his knees and begin tugging off his armor. To stagger back to camp and find some water and wash himself then fall into his blankets and sleep forever. Instead he lurched forward with a weary groan towards the construct. It lay unmoving, rigid, half on its side at an awkward angle. Even so the sight of it filled him with terror, and it took all his willpower to manage one step after another.

The thing looked destroyed, but none of them would be safe until he was certain it really was.

A few of his men were following him, Blackfinger among them, although most were either moving among the demons and making sure they were all dead by the easiest means available, simply stabbing them through the eye or the throat, or had fallen to the ground and were unconscious or catatonic with weariness.

He got to within twenty feet of the monstrous thing, the thing seeming to get bigger and bigger with every step forward, when a heavy beating of wings drew his weary head upward. For a moment his vision blurred and he was afraid he'd pass out, and then he saw the nether drake coming to an awkward landing in the lowest branch of the nearest tree.

The cloaked shape sitting atop it was small, even for an elf. A youth? The thought filled Marbrand with a sense of disbelief. A boy, riding a nether drake. A call drifted down from above, a question in the elves' tongue.

After a moment of stunned surprise Alvin, one of the trackers, called back an answer in the same language. The boy obviously didn't look pleased by what he heard. He asked another question, pointing at the demonic construct, and Alvin shrugged and turned to the others.

"He wants to know where his companion is."

"I'd be more interested in knowing _who_ his companion is." Blackfinger said, even the big man sounding exhausted, his legendary constitution strained to its limits. "He threw himself at this thing with almost mad fearlessness."

"Until it got him and came for us," Marbrand replied wearily. "Brave as he was, our men still died for his failure."

"Weren't no failure," Tar, lieutenant of the left flank, said peevishly. "Whatever 'e did, it buggered that big machine right proper."

Blackfinger snorted. "Nobody saw what happened to the thing. It might be the mo'args made it poorly and it failed on its own. Or could be some hero from among us managed to strike a blow none of us saw and bring it down."

"I'm telling you I was watching that damned machine the entire time," Tar insisted. "It were being destroyed, but nothing I could see was attacking it. Then it just ups and falls over without any sign of damage."

The elven youth called out another question, sounding angry, perhaps even scared, even as Blackfinger and Tar fell into weary squabbling. Marbrand was surprised they had the energy for even that. Alvin was calling back an answer to the youth's insistent demands and a few of his men were raising an exhausted but heartfelt cheer for the victory they were only now letting themselves believe was real, when a sharp _crack_ drew every eye to the monstrosity's head.

The construct's eye shattered, hurling shards of glass like daggers in all directions, and from its ruin a shape rose, black and dripping like some primordial swamp creature. In the trees above the youth atop the nether drake gave a cry Marbrand didn't immediately realize was of gladness.

For a moment everyone stood frozen, staring at the dripping black shape. Then Blackfinger bellowed in rage and charged forward, massive axe raised high overhead to cut the creature down.

Marbrand cursed and stepped after him, reaching futilely to stop the big man. "Wait, you fool! Wait! Can't you see?"

His friend slowed, confused but no less angry. "Wait for what? This demon pilot killed dozens of our friends!"

The black shape didn't seem to notice them. It fell off the construct's head, staggered to its feet, and after a bit of fumbling hurled away the oil-soaked rag shrouding it, which turned out to be a cloak. Coughing and hacking, the figure fell to his knees and began rubbing at his chest.

Blackfinger took a hesitant step forward, raising his axe once more. The big warrior ignored Marbrand's shout to stop, swinging the weapon down with all his strength.

The oil-soaked figure moved almost casually out of the weapon's path, still on his knees. As the axe thudded into the ground he fell on top of it, clutching it in seeming desperation. "Chopping my head off is a poor way to thank me for killing your fel reaver for you," the creature said in Common.

Marbrand arrived in time to yank Blackfinger around. "You damn fool!" he said. "What was I trying to tell you?"

His friend ignored him, staring at the man who'd emerged from within the fel reaver. "Destroyed it?" he said blankly. "What, you mean _from the inside_?"

The man coughed again, hacking up a thick black glob. "Can you think of a better way to manage the task?" He stumbled to his feet and stood tall, somehow managing to look daunting in spite of being more than two feet shorter than Blackfinger, and filthy and ragged on top of it.

Then again, even a gnome would look terrifying if you'd just watched it bring down a forty foot demon machine.

Behind them men were murmuring in awed disbelief. Marbrand could scarcely blame them; he was completely stunned himself. He'd wondered where the agile figure had disappeared to, and now he knew.

The reaver slayer took a shuddering breath and went still, looking as if he were listening for something. And only then did Marbrand realize that their benefactor was wearing a heavy blindfold over his eyes. To protect them against the fel reaver's innards, perhaps? But the man was making no move to remove the hindering cloth, and Marbrand wondered with even greater shock if he was blind. "You've taken care of most of the demons," he said, and it wasn't a question, and for some reason he sounded almost disappointed. He hadn't looked around or anything, but he seemed to know that no enemies remained.

"Aye," Marbrand said. "The fighting was fierce, but we cleared them out. The backbone seemed to go out of them when their big toy was broken. I think they were expecting it to win the battle for them."

The man laughed, the noise turning into another hacking cough. Marbrand was shocked to realize that under the caked oil their benefactor was a young man, slender as a boy.

Blackfinger was shifting guiltily. "Here, now," he said, pulling out an old cloth he used to polish his armor and holding it out to the youth, "I didn't mean to kill you or anything. Sorry about that."

The man accepted the cloth, wiping at his face. "I was expecting to find some sort of pilot in the head," he said, not quite answering Blackfinger's apology. "But all I found was a round ball as wide as my arms outstretched, covered in blinking lights and plenty of wires connecting to it. It must've been what passed for the construct's brain, because once I destroyed it the thing went down."

Marbrand stepped forward, holding out his hand. "I'm Sir Marbrand of Goldshire, leader of this band. I can't think of a way to thank you for what you managed with that thing, but you saved our lives and we're deeply in your debt."

The youth slung the cloth over one shoulder and reached out to clasp his hand, his grip surprisingly firm. "Nex," he said.

Marbrand noted the reluctance with which the youth spoke the word. "An interesting name. Does it have a meaning?"

"Probably." The youth released his hand and stepped away.

Marbrand looked at Nex's face closely. Some of the knights and captains of the Sons of Lothar had brought squires and pages with them, but no children. Not on an expedition as suicidal as the foray through the Dark Portal. This boy would've been no more than ten, perhaps even younger, when they came to Draenor. Still, where else could he have come from? "Did Khadgar send you?" he asked. "Did Shattrath answer our need after all?"

Nex shook his head. "I know nothing of Sha'tar'ath."

"How is that possible? I thought I knew the face of every man who came through the Portal, even those I've not seen in years. But I've never met you." Could he be a child of one of Alleria Windrunner's rangers? He hadn't seen the elves for years, and in any case they had been elusive of late, scouting around to the east on behalf of the Aldors of Shattrath. It could be they'd been hiding children he wasn't aware of. Nex looked fully human, not elf or half-elf, but he could be even younger than he appeared. And the theory was only strengthened by the fact that his boy companion had spoken only the elves' tongue.

The youth shrugged. "I've never met you either. Nor would I have. I've recently come from Azeroth."

The words struck Marbrand like a thunderbolt, rendering him speechless. The same wasn't true for his men, though, who were murmuring among themselves in disbelief. Finally Marbrand found his voice. "That's impossible. The Dark Portal's been destroyed for over a decade. No one's come or gone to Azeroth since Draenor was destroyed."

Nex shrugged. "There are other ways to travel from world to world, if one as the knowledge and power. I can't speak for the Kirin Tor or other mages who may have been able to make the journey here from Azeroth, and I don't know the fates of Khadgar or his cadre, but while difficult it is not impossible."

Marbrand stared at the young man, mind reeling. Khadgar had never said travel back to Azeroth was impossible, true enough. He'd merely implied it. But then again the Archmage had been lost among the portals Ner'zhul created to other worlds for years, only recently returned to Outland. And since his return he'd seemed little interested in doing anything but crouching at the feet of that naaru A'dal, if what he'd heard was true.

Was it possible their exile wasn't as permanent as he'd been led to believe?

As if in answer to that question Nex smiled, the expression ghastly on that oil-smeared face. "Return to Azeroth is not impossible. My master came to Outland, and now he means to leave."


	3. A Poisoned Offer

Hey guys.

For those of you who read chapter one when it was only 6.5k words or so, I've re-uploaded it with the full chapter. You should probably go back and read the second half before reading on :).

NT

Chapter Two

A Poisoned Offer

Nex sat close to the bonfire the ragged remnants of the Sons of Lothar had lit. In spite of all the wounded and dead the mood in the camp was almost celebratory, the soldiers veterans one and all, grateful for another day alive, another victory won. To add to the festive mood a creature the others called an elekk had wandered near their camp from the east, wounded and emaciated but with enough meat on its flanks to serve. It was currently roasting whole above the flames, turned on a giant spit.

At the moment he was extricating the dimensional pocket portal cloth from his ruined cloak. He'd been afraid it would be ruined as well, but the cloth had been enspelled with surprising resilience; aside from a few small stains, swiftly fading, it was whole. He'd already tested it and assured that it remained functional, and now it went back into its box until he could get a new cloak, hopefully a sturdier one, and try the same trick again.

Ilinar Montfere slept beside the nether drake near the steep side of the mountain at the back of the camp. He was relieved the youth had obeyed his orders to keep the drake aloft, circling out of danger and constantly alert to any flying menaces he'd have to flee from. As one of those broken by the dragonslaver's whip, a mindless husk that needed to be guided in everything, even eating and drinking, the drake had proved a tremendous hassle to care for. He was glad that Montfere had seemed pleased to take on those tasks, guiding the young dragon in its hunting and ensuring it ate and drank.

Nex had been given water to wash with, and what seemed to be a squire's tunic to replace his tattered rags. Most of the clothes these men wore were in scarce better condition than his own, but the clothes he'd been given looked near new, aside from a few moth holes and some fading. Soft wool dyed gray and white, with the bold silver lion of Anduin Lothar, Lion of Azeroth, blazoned across the chest. Likely the clothes were in good condition because they were far too small for any of the big men here to wear. In truth nearly too small for Nex himself, although he wasn't complaining. Montfere had also been offered a tunic, but in typical youth fashion had seemed content with his old, torn clothes.

Men included him in their celebrations, and since it suited his purpose to be included he did his best to participate. Some of the happiness around him was certainly due to his own words, his teasing hint of the possibility that they could return home. No one had yet tried to sneak more out of him about that particular subject, and he wasn't sure whether to be surprised or relieved. The fifty or so men who remained in this ragged company were exhausted, and Nex himself scarcely less so; now was not the time to broach the subject of returning these men to Azeroth, or the conditions he'd have to set on that return.

Many had gone to their tents and collapsed even before the meat was cooked, more hungry for sleep than food. Many were nodding off as they waited for the elekk to cook, and even the most celebratory were subdued by sheer exhaustion. He heard a few men grumbling of their wish for ale, and wished he'd thought to bring liquor with him; anything to win the hearts of these men to his cause.

Nex ate along with the rest, more for appearances than out of actual hunger. He hurt all over from his foray inside the fel reaver, the mild burns all across his skin combining to put him in constant pain, and his chest and lungs hurt as well. The meat was tough and he wasn't used to chewing, which made it even less pleasant.

But finally the ordeal was over, and more and more men began retreating to their beds. Eventually Marbrand stood. "Dory, Jon, Caval. You have the watch. Two hours, then you can wake others to spell you."

"Your men are tired," Nex said, standing. "I can cover the watch. No demon will get within a thousand yards of this camp without me knowing."

The scarred captain of this band looked pointedly at Nex's blindfold, the unspoken question clear. Marbrand had been silent for most of the night since the battle. Weary, certainly, and he seemed a bit guilty and even angry as well. But he was also suspicious, gratitude notwithstanding. Nex didn't begrudge him the emotion. "As you wish," the man finally said. "You'll take the watch with Dory and Jon."

Nex considered protesting once more that he was more than adequate to take the watch alone, but decided it wouldn't help his cause. "Certainly. I'll take southeast." The other directions were northeast and northwest, with southwest being covered by the mountain range at their backs.

Within a surprisingly short time the camp was still, exhausted men trying to find what rest they could after so long under constant attack. Nex sat silent, senses extended for any movement out in the trees, as he thought of the demons who'd harassed this group of men.

Stomrage had claimed that the large force of mo'arg and gan'arg were a remnant of Magtheridon's forces, a forge camp located in southern Terrokar near the ruins of Auchindoun that had been returning to the Black Temple to aid their master when an encampment of humans had distracted them. It could be true, possibly, but Nex wondered.

It all seemed too contrived. He'd saved the villagers of Corona's Blaze from undead, and earned all the trust they were willing to give a human by doing so. If a tactic worked, why not use it again? Stormrage was not above betraying the very allies he wished to recruit, as he'd done when he'd had Nex turn Garithos against the blood elves.

Still, if these were Stormrage's demons he couldn't understand why his master had wasted them on this ruse, rather than finding a way to secure the service of both forces. Particularly the fel reaver, which would've been a devastating addition to their forces. The night elf had said he needed every soldier he could find to assault the Frozen Throne, and these gan'arg and mo'arg were the siegesmiths and sappers of the Burning Legion, ideal for the war they were about to wage in Northrend.

Perhaps there was a grain of truth in Stormrage's claims. After Magtheridon's defeat Stormrage may have tried to enlist these demons, only to have his overtures spurned. Rather than waste his own soldiers destroying an enemy force he might have steered the demons into the path of these humans, thus paving the way for Nex to save them and gain himself a human army.

A horrible notion, but he wouldn't put it past his master.

Two hours into the watch the other men Marbrand had set roused two of their fellow soldiers and went to their blankets. One of the replacements approached him to ask if they should wake a third so he could sleep, and he waved the man away. Two hours after that the watch changed again, but this time no one approached him to repeat the offer.

Halfway through the night Marbrand awoke and left his tent, moving over to the cleared space near where Ilinar and the nether drake slept. The ground there was uneven and bumpy, and buried beneath it Nex counted one hundred and thirty-seven bodies, casualties of the humans' war with the mo'args. So many dead, almost triple the number of those still living. A waste. Marbrand knelt near one end of the haphazard graveyard, over a specific grave, and bowed his head. Nex couldn't tell if he was grieving or praying. Maybe both.

He rose from the squatting position he'd held, motionless, for almost three hours, ignoring the twinge in his left leg, and walked over to join the knight. He didn't disturb him, however, merely waited. After roughly ten minutes Marbrand spoke. "You've abandoned your post."

"I could watch it just as well from anywhere in camp. I told you, no enemies will escape my notice no matter which direction they approach from, or how stealthily they come."

"Yes. I noticed how you move with surety, in spite of the cloth that binds your eyes. You've been blessed with second sight."

Nex was surprised the burned man knew anything about that. "Yes. My family was gifted with it. Sporadic manifestations."

Marbrand nodded sagely. "Aye, there were some old families of Azeroth who had the sorcerer's eye. The Wrynns at times manifested it, and the Proudmoores. The Arans too, before their end." Nex couldn't help but notice how Marbrand's voice hardened when speaking that last name, and decided he'd avoid telling the man his own heritage. He despised admitting it even when it was of some benefit; as a detriment it was even less appealing. "I've heard as many who possessed the all-seeing eye call it a curse as a gift," Marbrand continued.

Nex inclined an eyebrow. "Oh? To see that which is hidden seems a gift to me."

The grizzled human laughed, the expression doing unfortunate things to the livid scars across the left side of his face. "Many would think so. But what is hidden? Goodly creatures, creatures of the Light, stand tall and proud in plain sight. It is the creatures of darkness and corruption that hide in the shadows. The all-seeing eye opens an unpleasant world to its bearer."

Surprised by this insight, Nex lifted a hand to lightly touch the cloth covering the ruin of his eyes. "Yes, I've had the same thoughts and come to the same realizations. You're right, it's shown me many grim things in my life."

After a moment the knight pushed to his feet and offered his hand. "I realize I was uncourteous, Nex. I spoke much of how I couldn't find a way to thank you for the help you gave, but I never actually spoke the words. So thank you. You did something I could not have found the courage to do." Nex hesitated a moment, then grasped his hand. Marbrand's grip was firm, crushing even, but Nex didn't rise to the challenge and kept his own grip average. The man hesitated, gazing at Nex's face thoughtfully. "You are of Azeroth, aren't you?"

Nex smiled grimly. "Of the world or of the kingdom?" But the question implied the answer. "Yes, I was born in the nation of Azeroth. I grew up on my family's lands, hiding while orcs ravaged the remains of our once-great kingdom."

Marbrand nodded and released his hand, stepping back towards the watchman's fire. "You held lands. I suppose I should address you as "my Lord", then."

"If you wish." It couldn't hurt Nex's influence to have the leader of these men address him so.

The burned man hesitated again. It was obvious he was trying to work the conversation towards something without actually coming right out with it. "And when you return to your lands, what will you do then?"

Nex fought a smile. A good enough opening. "You've been avoiding asking, but I can see you want to so badly it dominates your thoughts."

Marbrand went still, cautious. "Asking what?"

"Everyone heard me say my master was returning to Azeroth. But you've all been equal parts hopeful and suspicious. None of you has asked me to elaborate."

"So elaborate," the scarred knight said, not quite commanding.

Instead Nex turned away. "When your people are rested gather them together. I will tell you what has happened on Azeroth since you came through the Dark Portal. Then I will tell you of my master's offer. Yes, I can take you home. But it may not be the temptation you think."

Marbrand's face went dark with anger. "Do not toy with us in this, boy. It has been our deepest desire for over a decade to return home to our lives, our families, our own air and our own bland sky. You would be surprised what we would do to have it."

Nex nodded. "I have no desire to mock you, or tease you with false hope. My offer is genuine, but it comes with a great price. You can say you'd do anything, but you don't know what I ask."

"But I soon will." Marbrand put his back to the buried dead. "I'll wake the men now. Weary as they are, they won't sleep when thoughts of home fill their minds."

And he did. Not ten minutes later the Sons of Lothar were gathered around the campfire, which had been stacked with shattered wood and kindling until it was a roaring bonfire once more. Nex stood with his back to it. Expectant faces watched him. None were young, all at least in their late twenties or early thirties, and most bore scars and were gaunt and world-weary. Nex did not relish the task ahead. When these men had left Azeroth it had been in triumph, the Horde defeated and the Dark Portal strongly guarded, their home a safe haven ready to be rebuilt. They knew nothing of the poverty and famine that had struck the southlands as men fought orcs, monsters, and their own devastated lands to eke out a living. They knew nothing of the many failed attempts to rebuild Stormwind over the years, or the crippling taxes the Alliance had levied to fund the internment camps where the orcs remained imprisoned for over a decade.

They knew nothing of the plague, the birth of the Scourge, the summoning of Archimonde and the demonic destruction of Dalaran. They didn't know that the northlands were a plagued wasteland and that, as the nation of Azeroth had fled north seeking peace and safety from the orcs years ago during the Second War, now the people of Lordaeron and the other northern kingdoms were coming south for the same purpose.

All was conflict, and chaos, and death. These grizzled veterans weren't returning home to peace, but to war.

But he told them it all. Stood there with the fire roaring at his back and spoke so all could here, recounting the events these men had missed with the accuracy of a historian. Watched the disbelief and horror on the faces of these brave soldiers who thought they'd won the war for their world. Watched as hope became dismay, as joy became grief.

Last of all he offered a glimmer of hope, the bright gleaming beacon that was Stormwind City and the efforts to restore the nation of Azeroth to its former glory.

And then, with cruel necessity, he snuffed that hope out with the image of the Scourge, an enemy that fed on war, turning fallen allies into enemies, growing ever stronger as it crept southward against all efforts to curtail it.

By the time he'd told it all the sun was peeking over the tops of the trees, shining upon faces that looked a decade older than when he'd begun. And looking at them he knew it was time to make his offer.

"My master is the enemy of the Scourge. He seeks to destroy the Frozen Throne and cast the Lich King into ruin. And even though the Scourge was made to destroy humanity, and humanity has suffered greatest at its hands, it is not humans my master leads on this perilous venture. He has gathered an army of elves and naga who go to the north, into the heart of Scourge power, to try to end the threat once and for all."

He paused, looking around and letting his attention fall last upon Marbrand, standing near the back. Behind him the heat of the fire had fallen to almost nothing, the great logs and bits of wood burned down to humps and ashes. The scarred old knight looked at him with knowing eyes, sensing what was coming. Nex pulled his second sight away from the man, unwilling to see that accusation.

"My master has made me his emissary to humanity. He's sent me to raise the call to arms, to gather the human armies together to join him in the assault on the Frozen Throne. Right now the Alliance army is drawn inward, fractured and suspicious. I have little hope they'll answer the call to arms on behalf of nonhumans, though we fight for humanity itself. My master is not selfish, and he is not cruel, but as much as he would like to bring you home he needs soldiers, not the warm glow of charitable acts. He bids me to tell you that he _will_ bring you home, but first you must swear to join the campaign in Northrend. Only when the Frozen Throne is destroyed will your oaths be held kept, and you will be free to find the peaceful retirement your lifetime of service to Azeroth has earned you."

Nex looked at those faces, haggard and full of despair, and surprised himself by finishing with a whispered, "I'm sorry."

A long, agonizing silence fell. No one seemed to have a voice, or even the strength to move. Finally Marbrand stepped forward. He hadn't donned his armor, but even wearing little more than rags his shoulders stooped as if he carried a great weight upon them. "If we refuse?" he said, voice rusty.

"Then remain here in what peace you can find. Perhaps even Outland is a better place to live than Azeroth has become, and you can find more happiness in these trees, under the protection of the naaru."

He noted how the men flinched at mention of the naaru, and the faces of a few twisted into expressions of bitterness. There was a past there, some reason beyond nobly battling demons that kept them outside the safety of Sha'tar'ath's walls.

"Retirement, you call it," Marbrand said with relentless weariness. "To return to homes wracked by war and devastation. We've not been paid in almost thirteen years, and few of us have more than the rags on our backs. Even if we were to fight in the cold north, even if we do fight to save humanity as you claim, what would we earn with victory?"

Nex hesitated, then sighed. "A moment." He turned, surprised to find Montfere not three feet behind him. His attention had been on the humans surrounding him, while meanwhile his squire had sat almost at his feet, listening. The boy's expression was filled with a variety of emotions, few of them happy or content, and Nex wondered how the half-elf youth had taken his words of humanity suffering most from the Scourge. Quel'thalas had burned by Arthas's hand, this boy's own home likely destroyed. The elven race had nearly perished, exiled and weakened, while humanity rebuilt itself on the wings of the human spirit.

He wondered if he should apologize to Montfere as well.

But it was a fleeting thought; his audience was waiting. He drew out the box with the dimensional pocket portal and opened it, then reached inside. A few of the men murmured in surprise at seeing his arm and shoulder, then his head and other shoulder, disappear. With growing annoyance he scrabbled around behind the stacks of torpedoes, digging through a few that had rolled off and fallen atop the sacks of gold. Finally, in annoyance, he levitated one of the sacks into his waiting hand and withdrew it, closing the portal and tucking it away once more. Then he hefted the sack thoughtfully.

Roughly the weight of three hundred gold Anduins, if he was any judge. He could have counted them fairly easily with his second sight if he'd wished, but instead he turned and tossed the sack, hard enough that it split when it struck the ground, not three feet from the nearest of the sitting humans. Gold coins spilled out, minted with some foreign night elf images pressed upon front and back, and the Sons of Lothar began murmuring in some interest. Nex found that amusing; after a decade living as little more than animals, if their current state was any indication, just told their home was a barren wasteland, and gold still interested them.

Or most of them. "We're not mercenaries," Marbrand said coldly, staring down at the ruptured sack and the coins gleaming redly in the sunlight. "Do you seek to mock us, saying humanity calls for aid and then trying to buy us with _gold_?I fought beneath Llane himself as an armsman." He pushed aside the shaggy hair hanging over his face so it was revealed fully, though Nex had already seen it all with his second sight. The smooth skin where burns had healed, the weals and ridges where the flesh had melted and ran, then healed poorly. The milky white discoloring part of his left eye. "Do you wonder how I got my knighthood, the surname of Marbrand to match my scars?"

Nex met that fierce gaze calmly. Likely there were few so willing to stare openly at that hideous, ruined visage. "If you served beneath Llane Wrynn in the First War my guess would be during the sacking of Stormwind."

Marbrand's mouth twisted. "You would guess wrong. I was a member of the party that assaulted Karazhan under the command of Khadgar and put the knife to Medivh and all his cronies. I burned in the traitor's own flames as he and Khadgar dueled. I might have even been spared the worst of these burns but I wouldn't look away. I wanted to see Medivh fall."

Nex looked at the injuries in a new light. This man was likely at least partially responsible for slaying many of his kin and reducing Lynda the Demonologist to the wretch she'd become. He may even be directly responsible for the miserable life Nex had led.

Or maybe he'd merely been a soldier hacking down traitors at the orders of his superiors. Nex's suffering had been at the hands of demons, not humans. At least not to begin with.

"A noble history, and a heroic one." Nex's voice hardened. "So if I may ask, with your past honors and victories why are you here?" He swept his hand over the ramshackle camp, made no more fine or grand surrounded by heaps of demon corpses. "Sha'tar'ath is only a few days travel from here. Surely the draenei must welcome men who fought so honorably against their orcish enemies."

"You blind little shit," Marbrand growled, face darkening with terrible rage. But before he could do anything rash the big veteran with the stiff frostbitten little finger who'd tried to chop Nex in two the night before rested a hand on his shoulder. For a moment it seemed Marbrand would shake the hand off, perhaps even strike his companion, but then his shoulders slumped. He looked less proud, then.

"We've been on this miserable cluster of rocks far too long to remember past glories, old friend," Blackfinger said quietly. "We've lived as beggars and outcasts, longing for home, far too long. We all fought for Azeroth, not a one of us would say otherwise, but we also fought for this." And kneeling, the big man began scooping up the gold coins. When he had two handfuls he stood and raised them high, letting them trickle through his fingers. "This man saved our lives from that mo'arg machine last night. Now he offers us home, a chance to fight honorably rather than live as wretches and outcasts in this blighted forest, and even the payment we never thought we'd see. I for one think that's damn generous of him."

Nex wanted to curse the man for his support. "I won't lie to you, Sons of Lothar. My master is powerful, but even so I fear we might march to our deaths in Northrend. The enemy we face is relentless and terrible."

The big veteran turned and gave him a cold smile. "We haven't been Sons of Lothar for almost nine years, and not of our own choosing. I say better to die as heroes than live as wretches. Whatever the others decide I'm with you, reaver slayer."

Nex could see the anger, the frustration, on Marbrand's face. It was obvious the veteran realized just how poisoned this gift Nex offered was, and wanted nothing to do with it. Nex wasn't sure he could convince the man otherwise. He wasn't sure he wanted to. There were likely tens of thousands of humans back on Azeroth who loathed the Scourge and had lost everything to undead attacks. They would probably leap at the chance to lift a sword against the Frozen Throne itself. These fifty or so downtrodden soldiers had never known the Scourge existed until a few hours ago, had no reason to hate them. Had less than no reason to take up arms in a doomed cause against them.

He bowed, to Blackfinger and then to Marbrand. "I'll leave you discuss it amongst yourselves. You are free to choose however you desire, and I'll not try to sway you to one course or another. Come, Montfere."

The boy hopped to his feet, stumbling slightly since one leg appeared to be asleep, and followed Nex over to where the nether drake waited with all the dull stupidity of a cow, gnawing on the remnants of the elekk they'd roasted last night.

"That was pretty good," Montfere said, darting forward to walk beside him. "I think you'll get them."

_You and I have far different definitions for the word "good", boy._ But he made no reply other than to draw a torpedo from his belt and offer it to the young half-elf. "It's about time you learned how to throw one of these. It's a good weapon, and I have plenty; you might as well make use of them."

. . . . .

Ten minutes later Montfere dropped to the ground cross-legged with his arms folded, refusing to go after the torpedo that had clanged off into the bushes. "What am I doing wrong?" he demanded.

"Among other things, you lack the physical strength to throw the weapon with any sort of force. You should be approaching the age where bulking up to adult musculature is possible, so you have no excuse."

The boy glared at him. "Among other things?"

"You continually mismanage the spin, so the weapon strikes flat along the center rather than point-first. By the randomness of your angles I'd say you have no idea how to achieve that spin. I wouldn't be too worried about that, though, since as long as you have good force it doesn't matter whether the torpedo hits point or flat, it'll still be devastating." Nex paused significantly, and Montfere scowled at him. "Go get the torpedo."

Montfere jutted out his lower lip stubbornly.

"I said go get the torpedo, boy, or you can content yourself fighting hand to hand from here on out, because you'll never get another weapon from me."

Muttering to himself, the half-elf stalked into the bushes and began rooting around. The torpedo must have landed well-concealed to normal eyes, because although he knew its precise location Montfere just stumbled about, randomly whacking at frond-like leaves as he searched. Minutes passed with only curses coming out of the foliage. After a short time of this Nex became aware of Marbrand's approach, not only through his second sight but the crack and rustle of men moving through the undergrowth. "Have you made a decision?" he said, still with his back to them.

The humans seemed surprised. "You knew we were here," Marbrand said.

Attributing it to his mystical second sight? Nex smiled thinly. "I'm blind, not deaf."

Montfere gave a shout and emerged, holding the weapon in his hand. He looked furious, and spidery traces of frost were making their way up the fel iron as he unconsciously drew on his power. Thankfully none of the Sons of Lothar seemed to notice.

"We've given it some thought, aye," Marbrand growled.

Nex waited, but no more was forthcoming. "And?"

"You don't understand us, boy. We stood with the Dark Portal at our backs, holding at bay the remnants of the Horde as Khadgar destroyed our only escape off this world. We knew Draenor was dying when we made that stand, knew that when the Dark Portal was gone we'd likely die too. But we did it anyway."

The old knight's voice hardened. "Well, now you come to us and toss gold at our feet and say we can go home, but only if we make another stand. We're older than we were, more jaded, less filled with the zeal of youth. Some veterans say what we went through, there's only one time in a man's life he can stand tall and face it."

Nex felt a curious mixture of disappointment and relief. His task would've been easier with these men. "So you refuse. I cannot blame you for that."

"No," Marbrand growled, and it was obvious he wanted to say "yes". "The men have spoken. They want to go home, by whatever road you take us by."

"They?"

The humans shifted reluctantly, looking at their leader. Marbrand's eyes narrowed to slits. "I didn't agree with them, no," he finally said, "but I've led these men for thirteen years. I've fought beside them through the death of a world. So I'll lead them one last time, if it's their will. But my heart misgives me."

Nex finally turned to face the group of humans. "Mine as well. But I swear to you by all the powers that bind me, I will see you all home if I can."

A few of the officers relaxed visibly at that, but not Marbrand. "I once heard a noble man say that boys and women can make promises, but only men keep them."

"I've never broken a promise," Nex said coolly. "I am physically unable to."

Marbrand's expression sharpened. "And what binds you to such promises?"

It was obvious the man suspected just what demonic influences held Nex to his word, but whether he approved was unknown. "My power," he said simply. "If I break oath I become nothing."

For a moment longer the burned knight glared at him, and then he turned away. "The men will rest no longer, weary as they are. At least not until they've made a symbolic step towards home. We march as soon as we can strike camp."

Nex nodded, and with Ilinar went to prepare the nether drake.

The sun was halfway to noon by the time the men had donned armor and packs and prepared to move out. The camp was scarcely less ramshackle when they left it; quite a few of the men had taken weapons and even armor from the demons they'd slain. A foolish thing to do, but at least they had the sense to avoid the obviously cursed gear.

Nex was seated on the drake, dragonslaver's whip in hand, when Marbrand finished forming the column and moved to stand at its head. "We're ready, my Lord," the knight said.

Nex nodded. "Head north and east, to the thorny ramp that leads up to Hellfire."

Marbrand's eyes were narrowed. "You sound as if you're not coming with us."

Nex smiled, revealing his canines. "You'd be right in guessing so. By your own report nearly half a hundred demons survived to flee the battle. I mean to remedy that."

"Judging from your tone, I'd almost think you relish the notion of hunting down an army of demons."

"More than you know." Nex caught Montfere by the shoulder and lifted him up from his position seated behind him. The boy gave a surprised squawk as he was dropped to the ground. "I should catch up with you within a few days, but if you encounter any blood elf, fel orc, or Broken patrols under the banner of two livid green hooks they are allies. Take care of my squire while I am gone." Skillfully wielding the whip he turned the drake away and prepared it to take flight.

It was a useful tool, turning his back while making such surprising statements. With his back turned people let their guard down, and their expressions revealed quite a bit. For instance Marbrand's eyes hardened at the mention of fel orcs, while he looked almost nervous at the mention of Broken. He'd shown a similar reaction to Nex's comment about draenei earlier, as well as when they'd spoken of Sha'tar'ath. There was a reason these humans were out here and not basking in this so-called City of Light. He probably didn't need to know that reason, aside from treachery that he needed to be wary of if such was involved, but he was curious all the same.

All such concerns fell aside, though, as he turned the drake southeast and broke it into a run. His burned skin pulled and chafed against the creature's back with every stride, yet still he found himself smiling as the powerful creature surged beneath him and lifted him into the air.

It was time to hunt. No army of angry elves to shepherd, no innocent enemy to assail, no mission from his master to carry out. Just him, free to find those he so hated and eliminate them.

He'd been waiting months for this, it seemed.

Behind him the ragged human force moved away in a more northward direction. Likely they would not get far before weariness halted them, but the fact that they were so eager to set out was a good sign, he judged.

. . . . .

About three days into the march they were intercepted by a pair of high elves riding a pair of strange orange-red creatures Marbrand had never seen before. He'd heard descriptions of dragonhawks, however, well enough to recognize the rare and precious birds.

But if he'd hoped for an amicable meeting he was disappointed. The elves landed a cautious distance away, and one called in halting Common for their affiliation and purpose. Marbrand had the boy Ilinar answer in their own language, describing Nex and the rudiments of their contract. The elves looked at them for a long while, speaking together with low voices while never looking away. Marbrand found their green-glowing eyes disconcerting, although there was a certain hypnotic beauty to them. A few of his men were murmuring over the female elf; they hadn't seen a woman in years.

Then the elves curtly ordered them to continue their route and be ready to accept new marching orders every evening, then flew off without another word.

Sure enough the next night the female landed again, only long enough to direct them farther north, and they were left alone. A few of the men made a couple of lewd suggestions, and Marbrand gave them all a stern talking-to before they found their blankets. It was one thing to be interested in a woman, but those sorts of animal urges and discipline didn't mix, and he wasn't about to let his men get out of hand.

If Ilinar was bothered by the things the men had been saying about his kin, or half-kin judging by his features, he gave no sign. Mostly the boy just looked disgusted by how desperate the men sounded to see a woman.

There wasn't much energy to be spared from the march, even after a few nights of good, uninterrupted sleep and good hunting in the form of basilisks and warp stalkers, but Marbrand wasn't blind to his duties. If the young half-elf was truly Lord Nex's squire, and there was no reason to doubt that, then while the boy was in his charge it was his responsibility to see him trained and educated as Nex himself would.

Ilinar resisted such things. Oh certainly, he was more than pleased to join in sparring, and though more than a little wild he wasn't completely hopeless with a blade. Unfortunately wild was a great way to describe the boy; he'd seen orphans growing up along the canals of Stormwind with fairer tongues and more noble bearings. It helped little that Ilinar was almost completely unlearned in Common, although Alvin was doing his best to teach him. As for Marbrand's efforts to instruct him on the duties of a sanctified knight, well, that was a failure he wouldn't soon forget.

Needless to say, the boy completely neglected his squire's tasks. Marbrand meant to have a strict word with Nex when-if-the man returned; exigent circumstances notwithstanding, the boy's neglectful upbringing was disgraceful.

His worry that Nex might not return proved unfounded, however, for before the evening of the fifth day and the second visit from a high elf messenger (Ilinar had told them they were calling themselves blood elves now, but he refused to address them as such unless specifically requested to), Nex melted out of the woods as they were beginning to set camp, on foot.

"Where's Dumby?" Ilinar immediately asked, slowing in his headlong rush to greet the young lord.

Nex's features twisted with irritation. "Brought down with one of the mo'arg's spinning razor disks in his throat. I was too accustomed to Brightpoint naturally dodging and didn't manage to maneuver him in time.

Tears sprang into the boy's eyes, though he fought them valiantly. It seemed that the contempt Nex had for their magnificent mount was not shared by the young half-elf. "Oh. Did you get them at least?"

If the boy's master found that "at least" offensive he gave no sign. "All of them. Save one that fled to Sha'tar'ath of all places. Whether the draenei gave it sanctuary or no, I didn't want to approach too close to that city."

Marbrand frowned. He had no special love for the draenei, but he wondered what the human had done to earn their enmity. Combined with the fact that Nex's "power" almost certainly came from demonic sources was troubling indeed. He'd fought his share of warlocks and necrolytes among the orc forces, and he had no desire to be led by one. Even one who so obviously wielded that power against the Burning Legion.

But his men had decided. The only decision he could make, now, was to do his best to keep them all alive.

Still distaste couldn't cause him to forget his duty. "Run along to Alvin, boy," he said curtly. Ilinar glared at him and glanced at Nex, as if hoping his master would countermand that, but the young lord merely stared at him until the boy relented and trotted off, kicking at random things in his path in usual sulky fashion. In spite of his irritation with the boy Marbrand almost smiled at seeing it; as with many things, he hadn't realized how much he missed the innocent selfishness of children until he saw it again.

"What is it?" Nex asked when they were alone.

Marbrand recounted the troubles he'd had with the boy during Nex's absence. The young lord listened to them almost impatiently, and when he was done answered "So?"

Again he fought irritation. "So the boy is your charge. It is your duty to see him properly educated, not only in warfare but in manners and book learning as well. Thus far he's woefully lacking in all of them."

It was disconcerting to see those bandaged features turned his way with the certainty that Nex was looking at him. "Ilinar Montfere is the product of human and elf breeding. I do not know the circumstances of his conception, but I do know that high elves dislike half-elves, and more so in recent times. He suffered in their care, and he's only been in mine for a few months."

"That's a few months longer than it would take to teach that boy some discipline. Squires aspire to become knights, and there's no greater honor in the kingdom. It's your duty to help him obtain that honor if he's worthy of it, and I believe in spite of his wildness the boy is."

Nex again appeared impatient. "I don't have time to raise a child that's not even mine. If you're so keen to see the boy a proper knight you take care of it." He started to turn away. "I'll be resting."

Marbrand lunged forward and caught the young lord's shoulder. "You bastard," he said. "Do you know nothing of honor? That boy looks to you to guide him in what he should be as a man. There's no more sacred calling. For you to cast him away will wound him grievously, perhaps even kill his spirit."

"It wouldn't be the first time it's been killed," the man said. He had gone rigid at Marbrand's touch. "Release me."

Marbrand did so, no longer fighting his anger. "Very well, I'll take the boy. A man like you isn't worthy to care for him anyway, however powerful you may be."

"Thank you." Nex started to walk away again, then paused. His voice didn't seem so cold and distant when next he spoke. "I would be grateful if you would care for him, as well as you are able."

Marbrand stared after the man. Had that been affection in his voice? Perhaps even guilt?

Before he could wonder long he saw a shadow slip from the trees not ten paces away, resolving into the slender shape of Ilinar moving to confront Nex. They weren't close enough for Marbrand to hear their words, but what he did know was that the boy had heard every word they'd said from his hiding place. And the boy obviously wasn't afraid to show his anger to his former master; he could catch at least that much of the tone of their conversation.

After several minutes the dull beating of wings drew their eyes to the dragonhawk descending with its elven messenger, and Nex broke away from his squire to greet the woman. Ilinar made his way over to where Marbrand stood, head hung dejectedly.

"The man is not rejecting you," Marbrand said, trying to sound comforting in spite of his anger, "he's rejecting himself."

The boy looked up, and his eyes seemed to glow a cold blue. "You think I don't know him?" he demanded. "I understand his weakness more than anyone. I didn't want much from him, but you've taken even that away."

Marbrand was surprised at the strength of the boy's emotion, but not that Ilinar blamed him and not the failures of his former master. "Then take it back. For now you'll be my squire, and I mean to see you serve in that capacity and do not shirk you responsibilities. But there's nothing to say you cannot be his friend."

Ilinar dashed at his eyes, and once more they sparkled only with tears reflected off the world-moon's light. "You don't understand," he muttered. "He brought me back to life."

For a moment he could only stare at the boy. What an odd choice of words. Did Ilinar mean Nex had saved his life? Or had taken him away from a horrible life and given him something better? "Perhaps in time he'll be able to give you what you need."

"No," Ilinar answered. "I don't think that's in him. But maybe he'll give me what I want."

That was an even odder answer. Marbrand lightly cuffed the boy. "Go on, now. I told you to find Alvin for your lessons."

As the boy sullenly ran off, hopefully to obey him, Marbrand stared after him and then glanced across to where Nex spoke with the dragonhawk rider. Nex had failed the boy, there was no way around it. And that concerned him more than he cared to admit.

If the young lord could fail his own squire, what did that mean for Marbrand and his men?


	4. The Destroying Light

Chapter Three

The Destroying Light

Nex was in a foul mood.

He wasn't sure what exactly had caused it, although there were plenty of things to choose from. Watching from a distance as that mo'arg slipped past a patrol of draenei moving through the refugee camps surrounding Sha'tar'ath and to safety, at least from his vengeful hands. Montfere acting up and drawing Marbrand's condemnation down on him, and the cowardly solution Nex had chosen to make the problem go away. The fact that his head still pounded even though he'd spent adequate time in his regenerative trance.

That last, he had a feeling, was thanks to his second sight. It was a great gift he'd been given, this enhanced vision. But as with all gifts it was easy to ooh and aah about it and less easy to actually incorporate it meaningfully. Since his first few hours, struggling with the very alien nature of universal perception as opposed to his usual limited binocular view, he'd simply done his best to limit his second sight to an analogue of normal vision and at best used its potential for mere parlor tricks.

The problem was he didn't know how to go about utilizing its full potential. There was a reason dogs were color blind and insects saw with compound vision; minds were meant to see things as they were meant to see things, and it did little good to enhance someone's vision when their mind remained the same. With binocular vision the mind turned a three-dimensional world into a flat image with rudimentary depth perception, but with his second sight now everything was depth, he saw things from every side rather than simply the side facing him, and in every direction rather than simply straight ahead with limited peripheral vision. To add to that the sheer _volume_ of information now available, information which had to be sorted through for relevance and usefulness, was crippling. Perhaps he'd collided with his own limitations in gaining his new abilities; knowledge was power, but the most intricate spellform was useless in the hands of a gorilla who didn't know how to manipulate it.

In truth at the moment he was even somewhat limited in his second sight beyond what he'd been with his eyes, in long distance vision. He couldn't extend his second sight more than half a mile or so, and even then with extreme directional and sensory limitations. While he'd been hunting the demons he'd actually resorted to seeing through the eyes of the nether drake in an attempt to rest his overworked mind, but even then the creature's vision had been so alien that it had helped little. He hadn't even seen the disk coming for Dumby's neck until the creature was dying beneath him.

It was more frustrating than he'd like to admit. He had the potential to be deadly in battle, able to see all attacks coming towards him before they even began. Put a sword in his hands and, assuming he could control his second sight, he need never worry about being hit by a weapon or not finding a weakness in his enemy's defenses. But it would take time to explore his new abilities, far more time than, say, the mere complex calculations and spacial perception he'd been required to master to manipulate the Blinkstrike to its fullest potential. And in the meantime every time he tried to use it he'd likely end up with a splitting headache and extreme vertigo. His reaction times might even be slowed as he tried to sift for pertinent information.

Trying to master such abilities in the middle of a campaign, with dozens of other things to think of and his attention constantly demanded by other issues, was going to be singularly irritating.

Instead he ducked into Marbrand's tent, grabbed a sleeping Montfere by the shoulder, and yanked him outside.

The boy gaped at him sleepily, dressed in his underclothes and shivering slightly in the predawn chill. "Wha?"

Nex pitched his voice for the boy's ears alone. "You've gained new abilities since reawakening. You're unconsciously wielding those latent powers to a small extent. It's dangerous to yourself and those around you to leave such things uncontrolled."

The boy glowered at him. "What do you care? You don't want me anyway."

Nex had been about to say exactly why he cared, the fact that an out of control spellcaster was the last thing he wanted in his army, but the boy's words gave him pause. Damnit. "I intend to teach you what I can, but I really have very little to offer you in any regard. Marbrand can give you many things that I never could. You'll benefit more from his care."

"All he can teach me is how to be a stuffy knight."

Nex nodded. "Yes, those sorts of things."

The boy rubbed some of the sleep out of his eyes, still glowering. But behind his annoyance Nex could see definite interest. "You're really going to train me?"

"I know nothing of frost magics or the power you wield. I can give you the basics of spell matrix theory for the spells I wield, but I doubt it would help you much. Instead you're going to have to muddle through your own abilities and try to learn to channel them until you can find someone to train you." Nex left out the fact that, having never seen these powers before, he had no idea if such a person existed.

The boy looked disappointed. "How do I do that?"

Nex tapped his raw reserves and held his hand out, sending flames roaring ten feet. "Brute force. Spell matrixes give control and efficiency to your power, as well as allowing for more elegant uses and, frankly, reducing the risk of you annihilating yourself. But any idiot with magic potential can simply unleash raw power in its most wasteful and difficult to control form. It's the difference between a mage and the most primitive troll witch doctor, and in fact many of the most powerful untaught spellcasters have far more raw potential than most mages. The difference is knowledge." _And even if you never learn to wield your power with any subtlety at least by constantly trying you'll keep your reserves exhausted, so you won't freeze someone solid any time they piss you off._

With that he led the boy well away from camp and had him set to work attempting to freeze a small branch. It didn't take him long to discover that the boy's powers were far easier to bring forth when the boy felt some extreme of emotion. At other times he could barely tap that power, let alone put it to good use. And when emotions had control of him Montfere was unable to control the power leaking from him.

To make it even more frustrating Montfere's abilities were limited at the moment, whatever his future potential might be. Even angry he was unable to do much, and he didn't seem to possess reserves the way Nex was accustomed to; the power came when called, but it wasn't much and there seemed to be no guarantee of it.

In time he grew frustrated himself, and left the boy, cursing, to continue his efforts as he began his own effort to gain some control over his second sight. His first attempt was simply to comprehend the tree he leaned against, to see it in its entirety, from all angles, a fully three-dimensional view.

He couldn't do it. The manner of viewing things was too difficult, his mind too used to seeing things in a cone that saw only the surface and couldn't pierce obstacles. Perhaps in the future, when memory of how it felt to see with his eyes faded, it would become easier. At the moment trying to see the entire tree rather than whatever limited part of it his mind was focused on was like trying to stretch his hand out to the maelstrom of power overhead and draw upon its power. Impossible.

Finally he contented himself with his more modest efforts to see through those obstacles ahead to what was on the other side, as well as below the ground and in the sky above, while his main focus was struggling to maintain two visions at once; the forward vision he was accustomed to and at the same time looking behind him for those approaching or signs of attack. Perhaps in the future this, too, he could expand into a full 360 degree view that encompassed his entire surroundings, as well as above and below. In battle such a thing would be valuable beyond measure.

Before long the sun was overhead and he realized Marbrand and his men would be preparing to move out before too long. He glanced over to see that Montfere had given up on his efforts and was now whacking the stick at various plants, tearing through their leaves. "Come, we'll resume this another time."

The boy scowled. "Why bother? It's not working."

Nex was inclined to agree, but he kept his tone firm. "Things don't work until they do, and not at all if you don't work at them. Unless you'd rather leave this part of yourself untested and become a mere foot soldier."

Rather than answering Montfere stalked off towards camp, still punishing unsuspecting plants with his switch. Nex followed, frowning.

Marbrand was waiting for him when he arrived, the preparations to depart nearly complete and half the men already in line. "We'll reach the thorny ramp up to Hellfire Peninsula today," he said.

Nex nodded. "According to the messenger last night my master's forces have formed somewhat of a bottleneck there. They're numerous, and the ramp is choked with brambles with only a narrow pass originally. They're clearing it away, but you should inform your men they can expect an opportunity to rest when they arrive, perhaps as soon as early afternoon. It may be several days before the bottleneck is clear for us to pass."

The burned knight grunted. "They'll be glad for the rest. Soldiers usually are." Nex nodded, and with a gesture allowed Marbrand to lead the way to the front of the line.

In the end they reached the sprawling encampment at the base of the ramp at noon, hours before he'd expected. At coming over a low rise and seeing elvish tents the men began murmuring in anticipation; these soldiers had fought alongside elves before, and seemed happy to be among them once again.

Nex wasn't sure what to make of their enthusiasm, and he hated to squash it. Morale was a wonderful tool for keeping men obedient, but he felt obligated to give warning. "Listen," he said sternly, and the men fell silent. "It will be best for everyone if you have no contact with the elves, nor with the naga."

The men's smiles faded. "Why?" Marbrand demanded in his usual terse way.

No reason not to tell it true. These men had been on Outland all these years. "Things are not the same as they were when you left, which should surprise no one. The elves are nearly wiped out, and it was humans who tried to strike the final blow."

Gasps rang out, and grizzled old veterans looked at each other with grim dismay. "What villains would strike against our oldest allies?" Blackfinger demanded. "Was it Alterac?"

The question was almost amusing. Alterac was far away from Quel'thalas, and surrounded by other realms besides. "Alterac's ruins have not been rebuilt since the Second War."

"Gilneas, then? Stromguarde? Some coalition of pirates and thugs?"

Nex could have answered each of those questions in turn, for he knew the sad histories of all. Instead he merely gave the true culprits. "Lordaeron."

Silence greeted this. "I can scarce believe it," Marbrand finally said. "Lordaeron's right on the doorstep of Quel'thalas. They've been allies with the elves since the League of Arathor, the Troll Wars. A faith that's never been broken in all those years. Why, within Lordaeron's borders the Guardians of Tirisfal are held in nearly as much honor as the King, be they elf or man."

"The Guardians of Tirisfal died with Medivh," Nex said coldly. It was a subject that always angered him. "And Lordaeron and all humanity was nearly destroyed by plague and Scourge, making them hateful and suspicious of anyone they meet. Any latent racial hostilities were only enflamed by the disasters. Lordaeron leads the Alliance armies against the Scourge presence in the northlands, and its general, Garithos, hates all creatures not human. That is the truth we must live with. Whatever your love for elves, do not expect a warm welcome from these. Nor from the naga."

Blackfinger nodded. "We knows a thing or two about hatred," he growled. "Aye, we'll keep to our own selves if that's what they want. Long as you can promise us they won't slit none of our throats in the night."

Nex smiled thinly. "I don't believe they will. Terrible as Garithos's treacheries were, they were no more than a petty child kicking down a block fort compared to what the elves suffered at the hands of the Scourge. Humans they may hate, but undead they'll throw aside their own lives to destroy." He hesitated. "Even so, we'll set watches, and camp a distance away from the elves with the naga between us and them."

It was a glum party that followed him to the base of the ramp leading up to Hellfire. "Still, I like that we're fighting aside 'em again, useless as they may be," one of the men near the back of the line muttered. "I mean archers is great, but what're arrers goin' to do against skellingtons anyway?"

. . . . .

It was hard to fight down the dismay Marbrand felt at learning of the disposition of the elves. For centuries the elves of Quel'thalas had been aloof and uninterested in contact with any humans save limited commerce with the mages of Dalaran. Still, in the Second War they'd proven themselves brave and true allies, and the Rangers of Eversong Woods had willingly volunteered to accompany them beyond the Dark Portal.

To learn that it was humans who'd tried to strike the death blow against their ancient allies was troubling in ways he could scarcely begin to recognize. This Garithos Nex spoke of had much to answer for, and would if Marbrand ever encountered him.

On their approach he'd fervently hoped Nex was wrong and, whatever their feelings for the humans of Azeroth, these elves would still have some love for those humans who'd been on Outland all this time, fighting beside their kinsmen. Even so he was unsurprised to see their hostile glares, and at the same time he confirmed many of Nex's claims about what had transpired in the twelve or thirteen years since they'd come to Draenor. He did so by noting the elven standards, which Lady Alleria Windrunner had been pleased to give some details about. There above all the others was the standard of the Sunstrider prince, Kael'thas, although Anasterian's was nowhere to be seen, suggesting he truly had perished at the hands of the Menethil boy as Nex claimed. He also saw many of the standards of the high elf nobility, less than he'd expected, but that too was unsurprising if Quel'thalas had been ravaged by this Scourge.

Though the hostility of the elves was only to be expected, still Marbrand was startled by the emotions he found on many of those pale, delicate faces. Not for his men or himself, though; their faces showed the same loathing when they looked upon Nex as well. And yet at the same time for that slender, gaunt figure their expressions also showed not only fear but respect. That was what surprised him so. Fear, loathing, and respect. He'd thought it impossible for any two of those emotions to be felt concurrently, let alone all three.

How had this young man managed to engender such emotions in these elves? Or was it truly that the elves had become such bitter enemies against humanity, after all the two races had shared in friendship?

"I guess none of us are getting laid," Blackfinger muttered, falling into step beside him and glancing darkly at a group of robed elf females who ignored them frostily. Literally; a thin crackling barrier of frost surrounded most of them.

Marbrand shook his head. "You expect any different? Only Turalyon could get an elf woman to look at him twice. And that was when they didn't hate us."

His friend looked at him sadly, and Marbrand abruptly felt his own pang of grief. None of them had seen Turalyon since the destruction of Draenor, although Khadgar insisted their commander was alive. And it had been seven or eight years since he'd even had a glimpse of Turalyon's half-elf son Arator, taken away to be raised by the elves in their secret outpost.

Nex had stopped at a likely space to set up camp, but at his questioning glance Marbrand shook his head. "Not here, my Lord. Out of sight, out of mind, it's said. Over that rise should do."

The gaunt young man shrugged. "As you wish. I'll leave those preparations to you. I must report to my master."

. . . . .

It turned out to be more difficult than he'd expected to do that.

He'd assumed that Stormrage would be at either the camp at the bottom of the ramp or the one at the top, where the army was resting up and gathering water and supplies for the long trek across Hellfire Peninsula. But at his questions the naga regulating traffic up the ramp informed him that Stormrage wasn't at either camp. Nor had he stayed behind at Black Temple or gone ahead to their destination. When Nex, annoyed, asked where the demonic night elf _had_ gone the brawny serpentine warrior's answer was to point up into the sky with his trident.

Nex looked up to the hovering bulk of Tempest Keep and its three remaining satellites in the sky above, then cursed. It stood to reason his master would be on the floating fortress. "How do I get up?"

"Fly, I susspect," the naga said. Its companions hissed in amusement.

Nex searched around for where the flying creatures had their camp. There were plenty of those, combining the couatls, the nether drakes, and the dragonhawks, so finding a ride up to the Keep shouldn't be overly difficult.

Unfortunately the only nearby fliers camp he could see held blood elves and their dragonhawks. Likely when they recognized him and knew his need they'd be cooperative, but the thought of begging a ride off them didn't please him. He could continue searching for another means to get up there, and it probably wouldn't take too long to find one; the elves were fond of teleportation rings, and it was likely how most couriers, messengers, and officers were getting up and down. But his impatience got the better of him.

He cast an appraising glance up at the Keep. It was high and far away, beyond his own abilities. He'd have to tap the Illidari stone to get up there. At the thought his pulse quickened in anticipation; he'd been hungering for that power.

Another purpose besides mere impatience or hunger for magice guided him in tapping the stone's vast reserves, however. Stormrage had told him he'd best learn to quell the metamorphosis when he tapped the stone's power, and now was a good opportunity to do just that.

"Human?" the naga demanded. "You can go now."

Nex barely heard the creature's sibilant words, fighting an internal struggle to keep the changes from taking place within him as they had so many times before, even as his master's power raged within him in a flood he'd not felt since battling the naaru. It didn't take him long to realize, to his dismay, that he was losing that struggle. The naga hissed in alarm and sinuously backed away when they caught sight of his lengthening claws and skin swift growing paper-white, even as his hair darkened to black and the embers of flames began glowing dully within each strand. With his second sight it was an even more alarming process, feeling the changes spreading and watching his body morph, realizing how thin a razor's edge he walked between permanent corruption.

He had no choice. Perhaps at some future time he could wield the power in smaller quantities and make a more educated effort at halting the metamorphosis. For now he simply unleashed the power all at once. His limbs jolted, his stomach lurched and his organs slammed down towards the basket of his pelvis, and then he was soaring through the air towards the huge terrace fronting the main structure of Tempest Keep. Below him he sensed hundreds of eyes watching him in mingled awe and disbelief. The satisfaction of that let him feel a bit of the excitement of flying.

Or at least being hurled like a projectile for over a mile.

Perhaps his full metamorphosis included wings, as Stormrage possessed. That could certainly come in handy. But for the moment it was all he could do to control his approach, so that instead of slamming into the side of the swiftly approaching floating fortress, or flying too high and falling, he landed near perfectly, skidding for a few moments until he could halt his forward momentum.

He straightened, loosening his shoulders and shaking out his limbs as a dozen blood elf technicians gaped at him. Then he walked into the Keep, pausing every now and again to ask a guard or officer where Stormrage could be found.

The answer didn't please him. Apparently his master was in the large chapel room where he'd fought M'uru. Nex had no desire to return to that place, but his master's unspoken but deeply felt summons were insistent, and all the more so since he'd blown the power of the stone on his little exhilarating flight. He could only hope the naaru had been taken elsewhere after being captured.

That hope was disappointed, however, when he entered the chapel and saw the naaru near the back of the chamber, surrounded by a dozen sorcerers and with the imposing figure of Kael'thas Sunstrider standing before it, intently gazing at the creature as three green balls blazing with daunting spun and darted around the elf prince. The blood elves that held the godlike entity bound were channeling ribbons of energy into the sentient spell matrix; mana draining spells, keeping the creature weak and subdued, and indeed the naaru's glow was faint and flickering. Even more horrifying, the peaceful chiming music that perpetually surrounded the creature was now harsh and abrasive, the equivalent of a child's shriek of endless torment.

For a moment Nex stared at M'uru, stunned, and something bordering on terror gripped him. He whirled, staggering slightly as his left leg buckled, and fled back the way he'd come.

"Human. Remain."

It was Kael'thas who had spoken. For a moment it was a temptation to ignore that imperious summons, to inform the Blood Prince that he didn't answer to his commands. But Kael'thas Sunstrider was a powerful man, both individually and by the armies he commanded. It was time for him to stop drawing the ire of powerful men.

He returned reluctantly, keeping his gaze averted from the naaru and fixed upon the golden hair and cloth-of-gold and scarlet robes the elf wore. "My Lord?" he asked stiffly.

For a time Sunstrider remained in his contemplation. "No spellcaster of any power can arrive by that power without feeling the tantalizing draw of gaining more. Do you suffer from magic addiction, human?"

Was the Blood Prince trying to equate Nex's own innate powers to the well of energy the high elves had lived beside and been bathed in for millennia, to the point that it actually physically altered them? Nex couldn't see where one could even begin to make a basis for comparison. "I feel its draw. Thus far it has not been problematic."

Sunstrider kept his gaze fixed upon the naaru. "And when it is?"

"Then I will likely have to address it."

The blood elf did not seem pleased by that answer. He turned, frowning. "Have you given it any thought?"

Nex resisted the urge to brush the question aside. He'd traveled for months with blood elves suffering from the addiction. It was no trivial thing. "Some," he admitted.

"And have you thought of any possible answers?"

_Certainly, you can suck the power out of demons to feed the addiction and hope your supply never runs out._ "There are various ways to sate the urges without exacerbating the problem, provided one has access to power and is willing to share. I can see no possible cure."

Sunstrider gazed piercingly at the blindfold covering his eyes. "None? You've been given a great gift, one many elves are blessed with but few have the courage to unlock. Has it offered you no insights?"

Nex turned his head away. "I've yet to gain full mastery of my new abilities." A vast understatement.

The Blood Prince turned away, disappointed, and resumed his study of the naaru. "Here is a solution," he said, so quietly he could have been speaking to himself. "Untainted power in vast amounts. It could do something for my people." Nex made no answer, as no answer seemed expected. "Lord Illidan told me nearly the minute I rescued him from the clutches of the night elves that there was no cure for magic addiction, and I fear he may be right. Our ties to the Sunwell ran deep, within our very blood. Whatever it gave us, with us barely comprehending our need, there is no other source for what we lack. We can fill our mortal vessels to bursting with other powers and it would not truly aid us, merely flood the place of our lack until we could not feel it any longer. For a moment, for a day. But ever it returns."

This time an answer seemed to be expected, but Nex had none to give. Kael'thas sighed. "Lord Illidan offered the only solution he could, and I have taken it." Nex nodded; with his second sight he could see the way the elf's eyes blazed brighter with the fel energy glowing within them. "I have taken it. But have I traded the bonds of magic addiction for a different sort of slavery?"

It was hard to hide his surprise. Was Sunstrider suspicious of Stormrage? That perhaps the demonic night elf had given an answer to the blood elves' problems that would suit his own purposes, rather than a true cure? His master had certainly bound the blood elves tightly to him by weaning them on demonic magic. But Nex could see the fires of addiction raging unchecked within Sunstrider, suggesting that if the elf prince had any suspicions concerning Stormrage's motives he hadn't let them stop him from wholeheartedly embracing the proffered solution.

"What do you seek here, human?"

Nex jumped sightly, surprised by the blood elf's curt tone. "I am to report to my Master. I was told he could be found here."

Sunstrider continued to inspect the creature of Light. "He was, for a time. Standing in contemplation of this god." The Blood Prince fell silent for a time in his own contemplation. "It's remarkable. Like the Light made manifest. I once witnessed Uther the Lightbringer raising Lord Ravenholdt from death with the power of his faith, and even that display was not so blinding." But for all the blood elf's words, it was not awe Nex heard but hunger.

He had no reply to make. M'uru's tormented chimes rang in his skull like demonic laughter, and it was all he could do not to clap his hands over his ears. He knew such a feeble attempt would do no good.

Perhaps Sunstrider noticed his distress, or guessed it. "My magisters are keeping him drained to near the point of snuffing him out, under the command of Lady Liadrin. It's the only way to keep the powerful creature subdued. Liadrin also has some mad notion of taking the stolen energy and using it as a means to restore the Light to those of us who once wielded it. New paladins for Silvermoon."

Nex fought a grimace. He had little enough love for real paladins. Imposters wielding stolen and corrupted Light pleased him not at all. "By your leave, my Lord, I'll keep searching."

"Stay, human." Nex paused mid-bow, then reluctantly straightened, still keeping his eyes averted from what he was certain was the naaru's condemnation. "This is a being of vast power. I am impressed you managed to subdue it."

"My Lord is mistaken. I played no part in the capture of this naaru."

Sunstrider gave a low, amused laugh. "Indeed? Most would be quick to boast of such a feat. My servants who returned victorious with Tempest Keep in tow certainly were. But admission or denial the facts are obvious to see. This naaru is beyond Theril or Saire Firedge, or my Spell Breaker Lieutenant Velansar Redcrest. And I must say that even wielding the Master's power as you did, it must have been a grand struggle."

_A grand struggle that lasted mere moments and ended with me scampering off with my tail between my legs. An invitation to redeem myself in death that I was too great a coward to accept._

When he realized no reply was forthcoming Sunstrider finally turned away from the imprisoned naaru to cast cool eyes over him. Nex was shocked to see the depth of fel energy blazing in the blood elf's eyes. The Blood Prince must have been siphoning demonic power in massive quantities, on a breathtaking scope. And surging behind that chaotic power Nex could sense an even deeper hunger, a wild feckless thing bordering on madness. It was an effort not to flinch back; he would've seen all this immediately had he not been using his second sight like a fool, limiting it to what he'd see had he still had normal sight.

If Sunstrider noticed his sudden revulsion he gave no sign of it. Those burning demonic eyes, with fel flames dissipating almost six inches from his face, regarded him coolly. "You look a ragged mess that ill befits your station, human. Is that a page tunic? I seem to recall ordering finer garments sent to you, prior to your departure for Netherstorm."

"You did. Alas, it was a hard journey with many conflicts, and I don't put too much priority in maintaining my appearance."

"That seems obvious enough. Still, it is rude to take a gift and so mar it. If you do not don the trappings of power you will never seem more than a shiftless beggar, and never command the respect you deserve. I will advise my personal tailors that they are to provide you with clothing whenever you demand it, of a quality suitable to your standing. Whether you're hard on clothes makes no matter; you wouldn't be the first to make such a claim, and I'll not have you making a mockery of our war councils coming dressed as a common brigand. No matter the appearance of the rabble you lead."

_Yes, I imagine I need to look fine marching to my death beneath Icecrown Glacier. _Appearance seemed a shallow concern, all things considered, but Nex wasn't one to refuse a gift. "My thanks," he said with another bow.

Sunstrider turned away, not back to his inspection of the naaru but to a more broad inspection of the chapel. "I am pleased you did not excessively damage this chamber in your battle with the naaru. It remains magnificent aside from a few minor defects." At that the blood elf waved over at the section of wall where Nex had redirected his ensorcelled pit lord blood away from M'uru. Rather than trying to scrub away that foul taint the blood elf masons had simply cut away all the affected stone and were now busily at work replacing the section of wall and floor, perhaps with stone filched from some other part of the Keep. Nex hoped they'd had the good sense to toss the corrupted sections into the Twisting Nether.

Nex expressed none of these thoughts, though, and a long silence fell. He was just beginning to think it was finally safe to politely withdraw when Sunstrider spoke quietly, almost to himself. "I am thinking of moving this naaru to Silvermoon, after the defeat of the Scourge. It will be a symbol of blood elf power and a rallying point for my people. The Light sustained us once, why can it not do so again?"

_I don't imagine it sustained you through the torment of a naaru, previously._ "A naaru has never been seen on Azeroth. It would certainly be a rallying point."

"But I will not return to Sunfury Spire. That would only revisit old wounds." The Blood Prince gestured at the chapel they stood in. "Lord Illidan has granted me Tempest Keep as my prize. I believe I will have the Sun Throne moved into this chamber. It is very fine, is it not?"

"A throne room fit for the greatest king," Nex answered, then winced slightly, wondering if that phrasing made it sound like Kael'thas was anything but a great ruler. That might have been how he meant it, unconsciously.

But it wasn't that part of his statement that drew the blood elf's ire. Sunstrider's slight smile vanished. "My father was the king," he snapped, "until that traitor Menethil cut him down with the Lich King's own cursed blade. There will be no other king, of high elf or blood elf." He gestured curtly. "You may go."

Drawing the Blood Prince's displeasure was a small price to pay for escaping that room. Nex went quickly.

. . . . .

It was disconcerting in an odd way, to be part of a larger army yet completely isolated from that army. To Marbrand's eyes as his men set up their camp there was no difference from the hundreds of other times they'd done so. It made him feel strangely melancholy; part of grand undertakings was the feel of being part of something larger than oneself. He'd hoped that joining a force of elves and these snake-like naga creatures would restore that sense of belonging to his people.

Instead he felt as isolated as ever. It was demoralizing, and he could see it in the way his men worked. The lethargy. Something would need to be done about it before too long, if he had any hope of keeping his men from slipping away as soon as they returned to Azeroth. He wouldn't even have blamed them for doing so, but he'd made an oath to the strange, blind warlock who'd offered them this chance of salvation. A terrible oath, but a fair one. A chance to go home, a chance to have a future, and all that was asked of them was that they fight one last war.

To Marbrand it was a terrible price indeed, but one he was willing to pay for the sake of his men. He only hoped they would do the same, for their own honor.

A motion from the direction of the ridge separating their camp from the camp of their allies caught his eye, and Marbrand turned away from his people's efforts as he became aware of a group of elves approaching from the main high elf camp. By the fineness of their armor and the rigidity of their formation and pace it was obvious they weren't merely a party of scouts passing by, but a delegation.

"Blackfinger," he said quietly.

The big warrior paused in his efforts to loose his breastplate's ties and glanced over, then barked a quick command. A handful of soldiers broke away from their efforts and fell into their own positions, forming a wedge behind him with Blackfinger at his right flank. Marbrand led them out to meet the elves.

Their leader was encased in blood-red armor with a monstrous warglaive in one hand and a colossal tower shield in the other. His tabard had various decorations surrounding the Sunstrider crest blazoned in its center, suggesting he was a rather ranking officer. Marbrand had never seen the armor before, but he recognized it from the descriptions of elvish companions as being that worn by the elite guardians of King Anasterian himself.

The leader's nobility was lessened, however, by the look of disdain he cast over them as he took in Marbrand's escort. "You rabble have the gall to treat with me as equals?"

At his side Blackfinger tensed, reaching for the monstrous axe strapped to his back, and he heard the soldiers muttering angrily behind him. Marbrand was surprised as well; Nex had warned him that the elves would be unfriendly, but such open insult was not only unnecessary but deeply offensive.

He raised his hand to keep the men back, however, keeping his own face smooth. A key tenet of nobility was to hold oneself with dignity and treat emissaries from allies and foes alike with equal respect. No matter how they chose to dishonor themselves by their own actions. He stepped forward to match the position the elvish officer had taken, then bowed low at the waist. "I welcome you, friend and ally. I am Sir Marbrand of Goldshire, Knight of Azeroth and captain of this group."

"And I am Velansar Redcrest, a real captain of a real army."

He could almost feel Blackfinger's rage, how the big man was but moments from tearing the axe off his back and charging forward. Marbrand was equally offended. A real army? They'd marched with the Sons of Lothar themselves. They'd fought and sacrificed their own lives on an enemy world so this sneering elf could live in peace. But he didn't rise to the insult. "What brings you to our camp, Captain Redcrest?"

For a moment the arrogant elf looked as if he had more nastiness to spew, but then he seemed to think better of it. Perhaps to avoid prolonging this encounter with people he obviously thought beneath him. "I come at the behest of His Majesty, Prince Kael'thas Sunstrider of the blood elves. When he learned that your group had accompanied the failed expedition to Draenor he bid me come and ply you for information concerning his friend and kinswoman, the Lady Alleria Windrunner."

Marbrand barely heard anything beyond "failed expedition". He waited patiently for Redcrest to finish, and as soon as the elf had ceased speaking he turned without a word, motioning his escort, and made to return to camp.

Honor bid a man speak fairly, even to his enemies. But it did not demand him to stand meek in the face of insults.

He sensed movement behind him before he'd gone more than a few steps, and as he saw Blackfinger's rage turn to disbelief he felt a razor-sharp blade coming to rest against his neck above the ridge of his breastplate, stopping him cold.

"You do not walk away from the Highborne, lokiv murte'aquel," Redcrest said, voice deadly dangerous. Marbrand was no stranger to that low insult. "Give me the information I ask for, and then you will stand and watch as _I_ turn my back to _you_, as is proper."

"You make a poor teacher concerning what is proper, elf," Marbrand replied mildly. "Have you truly decided to bare your blade at a parlay?"

"Alleria Windrunner, human. I will know of her."

Marbrand imagined the position Redcrest was in, to have his warglaive pressed against him like this. Overextended forward, holding the weapon one-handed and trying to balance it with the weight of his armor and shield. He had no doubt the elf was strong, but strength meant nothing without positioning. No doubt this blade at his neck made for a pretty pose, but how deep could it cut at this angle?

Giving no warning Marbrand snapped his head back and twisted, ducking under the blade even as Redcrest clumsily swung. He caught the weapon from behind, shifted his footing slightly, and heaved. Already off-balance, the elf gave a strangled grunt as he lurched forward. Marbrand slammed his foot out to trip the elf and sidearmed him in the chest with a bracered forearm at the same time, sending him flipping to the ground on his back. Before Redcrest could do more than blink at the sky Marbrand had adjusted his grip on the weapon, two-handed as such a weapon should really be used, and with his feet firmly planted lowered its edge down to rest against Redcrest's throat.

"Lady Windrunner and her Rangers are our friends and allies. I would be only too happy to give Prince Kael'thas any news of them he would wish. But not through you, Velansar Redcrest. Carry to His Grace our humble apologies, and an invitation to send us an emissary familiar with the proper courtesies. You I do not wish to see again."

The elf didn't seem particularly perturbed by his helpless position. He smiled mockingly. "I'll have to disappoint you in that, mudman. I've been assigned as liaison between my Prince and Lokiv's irregulars."

For a moment he was confused, and then he realized that the elf must be referring to Nex with that pejorative as a name. How could that be? Nex spoke Thalassian, as fluently as an elf if Marbrand's ear was any guide. He had to know the incredible insult such a name signified, and yet he allowed himself to be referred to in such a manner? Had the man no pride in his own name, or in the lordly titles he could claim, that he so easily allowed both to be cast aside in favor of open contempt?

What force had he joined, that the bonds of brotherhood between allies were twined with open hatred and contempt?

With a disgusted grunt Marbrand tossed the warglaive to one of the other elves. They'd all made to charge forward at his response, but had frozen in horror as soon as their officer's life was threatened. Now the older, weathered Ranger who'd been to Redcrest's right caught the weapon, and Marbrand was surprised when the man smiled and winked. No one but the humans could've seen it, since Redcrest was occupied with getting to his feet. "I would invite your Prince to reconsider his choice of liaisons as well, Velansar Redcrest. You will have a difficult time doing your job when entry to my camp is forbidden you."

The elf went pale with rage. "You dare-"

Marbrand again turned and walked away. Disarmed, short of trying to tackle him or shield rush the elf couldn't do much this time, but Marbrand still kept his ears pricked for any warning of such an attack.

Sir Wagrail had once told him of the three fatal emotions, for they made a man stupid rather than wise. Anger, of course, and jealousy. But the most dangerous among them was pride. Not the pride of an honorable man whose actions were pure, but the pride that convinced a man he couldn't be wrong and everyone was beneath him. Those sorts of men would not give up in the face of reason, decency, or even defeat, could not be swayed from their position by discourse, and the only way to deal with them was to either avoid them or kill them.

The elves were his allies. There was only one honorable way to deal with Velansar Redcrest. He only hoped that Prince Kael'thas did not share his officer's misplaced pride and take Redcrest's view of this matter, or things could become unpleasant for them. They were fifty, and the elves were hundreds.

. . . . .

He found his master in the satellite known as Mechanar. The huge chamber where Stormrage waited was filled with machinery whose purpose Nex couldn't begin to guess, although with time and his second sight he might have puzzled them out. Stormrage was intent on one such bank of devices when Nex entered, and without turning the corrupted night elf spoke.

"You managed to save fewer humans than I had hoped."

Nex fought irritation. How many of the human losses could be placed on his master's shoulders? "Fifty-two."

"Disappointing. You will do better in your recruitment efforts on Azeroth." It was a command, not encouragement. Nex inclined his head as Stormrage continued. "They're a beggarly lot, as expected, and lacking in manners. Prince Kael'thas sent his liaison, Velansar Redcrest, to them to introduce himself. There was a disagreement. Redcrest claims the human Marbrand insulted him, then attacked him."

"Speaking objectively, Master, if Redcrest is involved in a conflict odds are good he is at fault."

Irritation flashed across his master's face. "I don't care about petty racial squabbles. Settle this and see your people are cooperating with the orders Kael'thas sends down."

"As you command."

For a moment Stormrage was motionless, one clawed hand resting on the bank of controls. Then Nex felt as if he were being torn inside.

He gasped, clutching at his chest even though that wasn't the source of this sense of loss. For a moment he flailed, confused and afraid, feeling as if he were dying. Then he realized what was happening. Had he not just used the Illidari stone's entire reserve of power he might have figured it out quicker.

The flow of power from his master had vanished. Not only the latent influx that provided so much more than drawing shadows, but the flow that refilled the stone's reserve as well. All of it, cut out, so he was left entirely alone with his own strength. He tried to speak, but his voice had left him and all he could manage was gawping like a fool as he stared at the fel lights shining through the fine black cloth of Stormrage's blindfold.

His master spoke to his unanswered question. "There is a quaint colloquialism I heard from your people once, human. 'A man with a hammer will solve every problem with that hammer."

To Nex's ears that sounded far too stilted to be a true colloquialism, but then again his experience around humans was blessedly limited. "I'm not sure how that expression applies to you denying me access to the Illidari stone's power," he said, finding his voice at last.

"Perhaps you should try to think it through, rather than hastening to protest that you don't understand. The pool within the stone is vast, and you've been using it for purposes unworthy of such power. I gave you that power as a reward, a gift for your service to be used solely in times of emergency. Not so you could suck it dry as soon as it becomes available for whatever whim strikes you." Stormrage's voice grew harsh with disgust. "A portion of my own power, to make any mortal tremble, and you use it for _blacksmithing_. In lieu of readily available flying mounts. Such waste goes beyond irritation to the point of insult."

Nex winced. "Admittedly, there are times when my use of that reserve was probably excessive. But to deny me it entirely, without even a warning?"

"Are you a child, to do what you know is foolish until you're chastised?" His master scowled. "Furthermore you've been relying on it too much, to your own detriment. You turn to it to solve every problem, where once your wits and surprisingly extensive knowledge could have served just as well. I can't afford to share my power any longer. I'll need it all for this campaign, and you had best relearn how to be effective with your own."

Nex bit back a curse. He should've anticipated this. He certainly had been cavalier with his use of the stone's power, and Stormrage wasn't exactly pleased with him at the moment.

Still, he didn't need to be on the defensive here. "All very reasonable, but for one thing. The reservoir of power within the stone isn't a bonus. It barely compensates for how your link has curtailed my growth."

The demonic night elf's face went still. "Beg pardon?"

"Don't play games with me, Stormrage. My reserves haven't expanded since you gave me this stone back in Elwynn. The shadows I draw still come at the same pace, when before that power came ever readier to my call. Coming to Outland fooled me for a time, the proximity to the Twisting Nether and the abundant energy it offered blinding me to my own stagnated ability, but I'm not blind."

"No." Stormrage's wings stretched out to their full length, surprisingly imposing for such fragile folds of semi-translucent skin. "So you've finally figured it out. It took you longer than I would've expected, your visit to Outland notwithstanding."

"So you openly admit you've capped my power. Not only that but you've denied me one of the only compensations I had for that lost potential." Nex laughed bitterly. "You say you need every advantage you can find for this assault on the Frozen Throne, but you're limiting my usefulness to you at every turn."

"Not entirely. Velansar Redcrest may have insisted you had almost nothing to do with the capture of Tempest Keep and its naaru, but you're due credit. As well as your share of the spoils. Perhaps it will make up for other losses you've suffered."

And with a cruel smile, Stormrage picked up the cloth-wrapped bundle from the table and tossed it to him.

Nex reached out and caught the bundle, then hissed in slight pain and let it fall to the ground at his feet. The cloth fell away enough to reveal the hilt of a weapon, looking as if it was made of fused diamonds wrapped with gold wire, with a huge diamond as its pommel stone, protected by a hilt-guard of lacy silver wire. "What is this?" he demanded. Stormrage made no answer, so Nex knelt and carefully drew the cloth aside, careful not to touch the weapon directly.

Revealed, it looked to be a longsword. Perhaps a few inches shorter than usual, with a slender, tapered blade of glowing white that to his second sight was impossibly sharp. The longer he looked at the huge clear stone of the pommel the more it seemed to gather the light and reflect it right into his ravaged eye sockets with mesmerizing intensity, even through the ragged blindfold.

No, not light, but Light. This weapon was holy.

And yet for some reason the sheath that held it was one meant to contain not only its power but also its influence. He'd never seen a holy weapon so restrained, since usually servants of the Light made certain their weapons were exposed so all eyes could see, to hearten believers and terrify infidels. He would've expected some malign purpose for the construction of the heavy leather and metal meant specifically to hide the Light of this blade, but it seemed to be made by holy hands as well. How could that be?

"Is this some sort of joke?" he demanded.

"I don't know. I've been informed the sword seeks you."

Nex grimaced down at the weapon on the ground. "And this makes the situation sound less like a joke?"

His master shrugged. "I'm not interested in trying to touch this weapon to see for myself. However, those who brought it to me claim that the holy weapon is sentient, and it calls for you by name."

"If it called to me by name it would be speaking demonic. What sort of holy artifact would do such a thing?" Stormrage made no reply. "Who delivered it."

"The captain of the Corona's Blaze company, naturally."

"Velansar Redcrest," Nex said flatly. Oh yes, that made him feel _much _better about accepting this "gift".

"The Spell Breaker desired to keep the sword for himself, an intelligent decision on his part; relics such as this are treasures rarely found on any world. However, for unexplained reasons he delivered it to me as a tribute, hoping to garner favor. I offered to let him keep it and he seemed . . . less than enthusiastic about accepting."

If Nex was suspicious before, now he was much more so. A powerful holy sword whose touch would fill him with agony, seeking him by name, delivered by Redcrest himself? If this wasn't a trap or test of some sort then the fates drew endless amusement out of the situation.

And yet . . . Stormrage was right about this weapon; even with the sheath subduing it he could tell it was a relic of immense power. Such things were not lightly tossed aside, even if they burned the hand that wielded them. Admittedly, chances were very small that simply touching the weapon would kill him, since holy relics tended to be rather passive and required a wielder for their power to become focused and dangerous. Were their affiliations reversed, the sword a demonic weapon and he a servant of the Light, it would be a much different story. A demonic weapon would seek to destroy or corrupt any who came close or tried to touch or wield it, particularly if that person was a servant of the Light. Much as Rachondimus's whip had sought to destroy him until he gained mastery over the malignant artifact.

In any case such a valuable item was quite the gift, even if he couldn't use it. He could always store it away to give to someone else, or sell it. Perhaps Marbrand would be interested in wielding a holy sword against undead. But all that was assuming he couldn't use it, something he highly doubted whatever Stormrage's claims that it "called to him". In any case there was only one way to know for sure.

Taking a deep breath, he reached out and rested a finger on the clear, glowing hilt.

_'NEX!'_

He jerked his hand away, not so much because of the pain as at hearing his name. Although the pain was not trivial. He stared at the weapon warily, stunned at hearing it indeed call his name. After a moment of doubt he touched it once more.

_'Sak'hazeth ghustar, vali gomik rud'huzrak sa'thanarak-viNex.'_

Nex pulled his finger back a second time, a deliberate motion this time, and rocked back on his heels in a balanced crouch, staring at the weapon in genuine confusion.

Demonic. There could be no doubt about that. And in a way it was almost funny, for those who'd held this weapon before him had to have horribly misjudged what they'd been hearing in order to come to the conclusions they'd come to.

They thought the sword was calling for him, but they were wrong. It was calling for nothing. It was expressing its desire to see all creation utterly annihilated, until at last it was an empty void as once it must have been. A holy weapon, seeking the destruction of all worlds scattered through the Great Dark Beyond.

Nex threw back his head and laughed.

"This gift amuses you?"

He lifted his head to face his master. "Where did this sword come from?"

Stormrage frowned, confused and not liking that he was confused. "It was taken as spoils within the Arcatraz."

Saire. He grimaced slightly, wishing she hadn't been connected to any of this. That desire made no sense to him, unless he simply had no wish to hear anything about her. "Spoils, or was it being kept imprisoned as other volatile and dangerous denizens were kept imprisoned?"

"Do you honestly think the draenei would withhold access to a holy weapon?"

"Perhaps." Without knowing this sword's history he had no way of knowing. Yet what master blacksmith, wielding incredible skill and power in the Lightforging of this weapon, would be pleased to learn of its nature?

Assuming that was really its nature. Nex gritted his teeth and closed his fingers around the weapon, speaking to it in the language it had addressed him in. _Sword, what is your purpose?_

_'The annihilation of all creation.'_ Nex wince slightly at the answer, for its earlier statements had seemed tinged with madness, but this reply was utterly calm.

_Do you mean to say the annihilation of the Burning Legion and all other sources of corruption?_

_'Will I often have to answer the same question twice? How tiresome. No I don't mean that, I mean all creation!"_

_The purpose of the Light and those who serve it is the preservation of creation and to halt or curtail corruption and entropy._

It was growing harder and harder to focus, for even only lightly grasping the hilt pain was lancing up his arm. That pain become agony as the holy sword suddenly blazed with rage, its power burning through him with redoubled intensity. _'Fool! You fool! Entropy cannot be curtailed! All creation is flawed and doomed! Our only hope is to destroy it all and rebuild it in perfection! _I _must destroy it!'_

Nex snatched his hand away, snarling with pain. There could be no doubt about it, this holy weapon was insane. Not only that, but completely at cross purposes with the very power it possessed. Then again, perhaps that was the source of its insanity; created to preserve and coming to an ostensibly rational decision that it must instead destroy. Even sentient weapons must be driven mad by such conflicts of morality.

And yet perhaps it was a good thing, for Nex. In spite of the lofty ideals and holy nature of the sentient weapon, its desires were surprisingly in line with demonic tenets. Nex was no stranger to convincing demons to serve him; he need not promise them the destruction of the universe, as they wished. Only that they would be an instrument of destruction in his hands. Since any destruction pleased them they failed to make the distinction between the two.

Such assurances had worked with Rachondimus's sentient, mutely seething whip. He wondered if a self-deluded holy weapon would be equally swayed by them. Only one way to find out.

Gritting his teeth, he clamped his hand back down on the hilt.

_'Akhet NextaeJa grukul mishlok! Daplot mish'tugar!'_

It as all he could do to fight the waves of agony washing up his arm. _Do all holy weapons speak in demonic?_

_'I'm not speaking at all, mortal! It is your mind's deepest and most familiar language you hear.' _Nex found that thought repulsive, and as if the sentient weapon realized it mad laughter pealed through his head. _'Just kidding. Foul as the language of fallen Sargeras is, it most adequately lets me express my own desires. Your arm is on fire.'_

Nex glanced down and cursed, seeing the ephemeral holy flames burning away his demon skin. He should've canceled the spell, but then again he might've been even more vulnerable without it. _You're welcome to stop burning it._

_'No! All creation must fall, don't you see? What matter if it begins with YOU?'_

_You'll have a singularly difficult time annihilating all creation if you have no wielder. _The only answer was more mad laughter, going on and on, and Nex finally couldn't take it anymore. He wrenched his hand away, the laughter disappearing in an instant from his mind. But only long enough for him to grip the hilt with his left hand. Once more the laughter assailed him, unabated. _No need to be hostile, sword. I could be useful to you._

_'Yes, and when all creation was finally ended you could help me rebuild it in perfection? No, mortal, perfection isn't in you. In fact I've never encountered a more flawed soul.'_

That stung more than he would've cared to admit. _Yes,_ he shot back, _and your other wielders were such paragons of virtue that when they knew your desires they locked you away in your prison sheath and placed you in a cell in one of their most powerful fortresses, behind forcefields no power could penetrate. You'll certainly succeed in your designs if I give you over to another such wielder._

It had been merely a guess, but it seemed to have struck true. The laughter ceased abruptly. _'Do I seem gullible, mortal? Don't cozen me as you would a demonic weapon. You're no more in line with my motives than the one who created me.'_

_Yes, but at least in my hands you'll be able to begin the work of __destruction again. Another alternative is for me to toss you into the abyss and you can see how long you drift in the Twisting Nether before _anyone_ finds you, let alone someone as useful as I._

Rage battered at his mind, so powerfully that it was all he could do to keep his grip on the sword. Then, all at once, it vanished. _'Even my creator did not begin with perfection. He could never make me the weapon he wanted, but perhaps I'll have more success with you.'_

Nex released the weapon before it could sense his amusement. _Yes, keep telling yourself that, _he thought, the mocking words never leaving his own head. Gaining the services of this sword was even more like subduing a demonic weapon than he'd expected.

_'I heard that,'_ the sword said when he held it once more. _'Luckily for you I have faith in the changeable nature of mortals, and the power of my own righteous destiny. I'll win you to my cause in time, even if it takes a thousand years.'_

_I look forward to it. Can you stop burning me now? _Almost before he'd had the thought the pain lessened, although it didn't vanish entirely. Nex had no hope that it ever would, not while he held a weapon that so conflicted with his own nature. Still it was bearable, as long as it did his hand no lasting harm while he gripped it. _Thank you. I am Nex-thanarak._

_'Nex-thanarak shubar'tarul, ni-thanarak ovi'nex. You're nothing, you've always been nothing, and you'll always be nothing.'_ The holy sword pealed in his mind with deafening laughter pounding within his skull. _'Has ever a mortal had a less fitting name? You're mean.'_

_I'm not so bad when you get to know me._

_'You misunderstand, fool! You're the embodiment of meanness, you're dross, you're insignificant. You only wish you could claim to be pure, true nothingness, but instead you're something of far, far less worth.'_

Nex gritted his teeth. _As you say. Do you have a name, sword?_

Another peal of mad laughter. _'My master once called me Saneth taeJa, "the Cleansing Light". I could never convince him to rename me, so I was obliged to name myself. I call myself NextaeJa, now.'_

Nex felt ice shiver down his spine. If taeJa meant Light in whatever holy language the sword's creator had spoke, then the sword's name meant "Light of Nothingness," or perhaps "Light that Seeks Nothingness."

_'No no no! Don't you know your own language? Like with so many things in demonic there's an unspoken nihilistic clause in the phrase. Nothing so passive as simply "seeking" or "being", I was created to bring it about. NextaeJa means "the Destroying Light.'_


	5. Portals

Chapter Four

Portals

Nex knew this place.

Certainly, there was little to differentiate it from the rest of Hellfire Peninsula's inhospitable cracks, jutting escarpments, and broad flat stony planes. Yet he knew that not long ago a wagon had stood in this little valley ahead, and on that cliff to the north stood a man unsure which side he hoped would win.

An army of night elves had died here, not all of them his enemies even if some had been his captors. He couldn't bring himself to pity them, since they'd been following a madwoman who invaded another world for the sake of bringing "justice" to a night elf her leaders had already pardoned. Still, innocents had died for her need for revenge, and by some twist of fate the only person who deserved death remained alive. And looked to remain so indefinitely.

Akama and his force of Broken surrounded the wagon imprisoning Maiev Shadowsong. Stormrage was speaking to the elder sage, bidding him to take Shadowsong and return to Shadowmoon Valley, where it would be the responsibility of the Ashtongue tribe to ensure she remained imprisoned.

Akama bowed low. "Great Lord. The greatest of my warriors have sworn themselves specifically to your service, that death may find us if we fail you. Guarding this prisoner and ensuring Black Temple and Tempest Keep remain in your possession will be our highest priority."

Stormrage inclined his head. "Your Deathsworn need not worry about Tempest Keep. A handful of blood elf and ethereal technicians will be flying it far out into the Nether, where no threat will be able to assail it."

The Broken leader bowed again. "As you command." And simple as that the meeting was concluded, the Ashtongues guiding the wagon back the way they'd come, with Shadowsong glaring malevolently out at all of them as she grew ever smaller in the distance. Nex found much of that ire directed at him, those eyes still continuing to accuse him for things that were, reasonably, the big night elf woman's own damn fault.

Nex turned away to find that Marbrand's group had caught up with them. Marbrand himself was approaching quickly, carrying his armor strapped awkwardly to his back rather than wear it in this broiling heat. Not far into their journey through Hellfire many of the humans had simply ditched their armor, lacking the strength to carry it through this brutal terrain.

Marbrand's expression was grim as he came up beside Nex and looked down at the retreating wagon with its guard of Broken. "So he's sending them away. I would've thought he would be desperate for any soldiers he can find, and he always seems to have that rude purple bitch pretty close to hand."

"The Broken refuse to leave this world. Their fight is on Outland, not some distant threat on Azeroth that means nothing to them. As for Shadowsong, I imagine my master has no desire to bring her back to where his people might try to rescue her, or where she could affect some escape and renew the hunt."

The knight nodded, rubbing a calloused hand across cheeks smooth with burn scars. "Still, one has to wonder why he brought them all this way, only to send them back now."

Nex could only shrug. Perhaps Stormrage suspected the Broken of disloyalty and had wanted to keep them close. Perhaps he feared some remnant of demonic forces that would require all the allies they could find to aid them in battle. Or maybe he just wanted to keep Shadowsong around for as long as possible so he could torment her, and had brought the Broken along for the sole purpose of guarding her when he was gone. Either way it was none of his business.

Evidently Marbrand felt the same, because after a few moments he cleared his throat. "My Lord, we need to speak of supplies."

Nex turned. "Oh?"

"Aye. We're suffering greatly in this cursed wasteland, and all that we brought from Terrokar ran out almost a full day ago."

Nex fought the urge to curse.

Logistics again. Gods, he'd hated such petty details when it had been the elves worrying about eating day to day on this barren rock. "We won't be on Outland much longer," he said. "The ruins of the Dark Portal are only a few days away now, and Azeroth remains a rich world for those who know how to find food."

"So you say," Marbrand said, sounding angry. Perhaps that Nex had missed his point entirely. "Food we can manage without if there's no other option, but at the moment we may not reach the Dark Portal at all without water. We desperately need it."

Reaching up to massage his blindfold, Nex turned and looked pointedly at the rear of the column, where giant turtles, suffering in the heat, were dragging monstrous tanks filled with marsh water from the Zangar Marshes. Marbrand didn't even bother to follow his gaze, only spat in that direction. "Aye, our _allies_ have water. Yet the men I sent to collect from those tanks kept getting pushed to the back of the line as companies of naga and blood elves and even Broken and fel orcs drew water."

Nex fought a surge of annoyance. Those goddamn naga. Like it or not Marbrand's men were going to be fighting alongside them, and refusing them water served no purpose but to weaken their own forces. "I warned you we would probably face mistreatment-"

"This goes beyond mistreatment!" Marbrand growled. "Even once all the others were gone and we could finally move to the front of the line the naga refused us water. Threatened our lives if we came back and ask again."

Nex finally let loose a stream of expletives in demonic. Montfere, who'd been coming up to stand beside them, stopped and looked at him with surprise. "Have you gone to Redcrest with this?"

Montfere snorted, and the knight stared at him in disbelief. "You must be joking."

"Are you having difficulties with the liaison my master's Right Hand sent you?"

Marbrand met the accusation with outrage, but when he spoke his voice was mild. "There are no difficulties. I look forward to fighting alongside the elves once more. Once a new liaison has been sent to us all will be well."

Nex frowned. "Have you ever suffered from an infestation of cockroaches?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Have you ever tried to get rid of cockroaches."

The knight shrugged. "I've lived in many a barracks plagued by the things. No doubt there are attempts to eradicate them. Most fail."

"Exactly. Do not hope you'll replace Redcrest. He's done an enviable job of stealing the glory of others and rising by it. No doubt he will steal your glory as well."

"We're not doing this for glory, we're doing it for humanity."

"Yes, selfless motives make it much easier for him to succeed."

Marbrand glared for a moment, and then spat off to the side. "I'll set one of my men as the liaison on our side. Redcrest will not be allowed in this camp, but we'll deal with him if we have to."

"He'll blame you for the difficulties in communication this causes."

"The Light bugger his difficulties and Redcrest too. You need to get us water, or I swear by Turalyon's honor my men will try to fight through the naga to get it."

"I'll sort this out," Nex promised. Marbrand opened his mouth to speak again, likely another ultimatum, but Nex raised his hand for silence and gestured. A blood elf messenger was approaching. "It may have to wait, however." Messengers never sought him out unless his master summoned him.

Sure enough the female stopped at a distance and glared imperiously as she confirmed his suspicions. "Lokiv. Lord Illidan bids you attend him."

Nex nodded. "I'll go immediately. In the meantime you're to go directly to Prince Kael'thas and inform him my men are being refused water."

In spite of her arrogance the woman paled slightly. "I can't go directly to my Prince! I only report to Lieutenant Baniel."

"You'll go to him this time, messenger. Officers among the blood elf and naga forces are blatantly stonewalling our attempts to settle this amicably." She opened her mouth to protest again and Nex spoke right over her. "When I return from my conversation with Lord Stormrage, woman, if my men do not have water I will be tracking you down personally."

Dislike warred with fear within the messenger, but finally she bowed and scurried away. It was good to know he at least had a fearsome reputation among his allies.

"Do you think that'll work?" Marbrand asked.

"No. I'll sort this out when I return." Nex extended his second sight, searching for his master, and found him near the front of the column.

When he approached his master turned to him. "Come with me, human," he said curtly, then immediately began walking to the northwest.

Nex followed. "Where are we going? What do you need me for?"

"I don't need you for anything, human. Only your presence so I can compare your magical signature with the one I seek."

Ah. Nex could understand that, knowing the area they were in and the direction they were headed. What he couldn't understand was _why_.

. . . . .

"No water," Marbrand said glumly.

"Our men are going to start getting sick from thirst soon," Blackfinger warned.

"Have them drink their urine."

The big man gaped at him. "Drink our . . . with nearly full tanks of water not five hundred yards away?"

"Nex promised to sort it out, but knowing those he's dealing with it may be hours."

"Our men can survive that long. I'm sure they'd prefer to keep the indignities to a minimum."

Blackfinger shrugged and was about to begin the tedious task of freeing himself of the armor tied to his back when a whistle from the sentries caught his attention, and he turned to see another blood elf approaching. Since Nex was gone this one had obviously come to see them. Marbrand made his way to the edge of the camp to meet their visitor.

It was the older ranger who'd accompanied the delegation that greeted them yesterday. The one who'd seemed less ill-disposed towards humans than the others. "Greetings, Sir Marbrand," he said. "I'm Hardal Dor'ane. Do you remember me?"

"I do," Marbrand admitted. "You serve Captain Redcrest. Have you come at his behest?"

Hardal grimaced slightly. "Sadly no. It pains me to say this, but Redcrest has no intention of honoring your wish that he have no contact with you. You will likely suffer another visit from him before too long. I come for a different purpose."

Courtesy dictated that Marbrand invite the older Ranger into the camp, but instead he stood firm. "Your purpose will have to take a lower priority. If you have any influence among the blood elf forces you must find a way to get us water."

Hardal blinked. "Water?" After a quick glance around his confusion turned to outrage. "The naga are denying you water?"

"Your people's hatred for us runs deeper than I feared. Nex has promised to see to it, but I fear-"

"Promises be damned," the elf snapped. "As soon as I'm done speaking to you I'll personally go and round up a dozen men with water jugs."

"Then let's be quick about our business." Marbrand stepped aside. "Be welcome in our camp. Would you like some food? Basilisk bones, stewed with the thorns cleared off the ramp."

The elf looked dubious as he followed Marbrand into the human camp. "Thorns?"

"Properly ground they make something not unlike flour, although more bitter. But we boiled then mashed it to make a thickening agent for marrow broth."

"Thank you, no." Hardal sighed. "Still, we could benefit from your knowledge of the indigenous life, what is edible, what is dangerous, etcetera. A pity we'll be leaving this land before such knowledge would really prove useful." The elf looked around. "I understand you have care of the half-elf boy, Ilinar Montfere."

Marbrand was somewhat relieved at the elf's refusal; disgusting as the paste was, they were running low on food. "Aye. Have you come to claim responsibility for him?"

The Ranger's features twisted. "I claimed responsibility before, and would have done my best in spite of my duties. But the boy ran off in favor of Lokiv instead. I understand he didn't get his wish, and now squires for you."

"He does. And I mean to see him raised properly."

"Then my heart is eased of at least one worry." But from the way Hardal spoke Marbrand could tell the boy wasn't his purpose for coming.

"Have you come for news of the Rangers Lady Alleria led to Draenor?"

Again the elf grimaced. "I would be pleased to hear it, but Redcrest has insisted that he will be the one to learn such news. He's the sort who'd prefer to smash through a door, even if it's unlocked and the occupant is inviting him to enter." After a brief, rueful pause Hardal shook his head. "No, actually I've come for another purpose. My kinfolk aside, you're not the only survivors of that expedition."

"No. Your kin scout and man outposts on behalf of the draenei of Shattrath, and Kurdran Wildhammer and his gryphon riders disappeared years ago into the mountains to the south. I've no reason to suppose they came to a bad end."

"And your fellow humans?"

Marbrand kept his face impassive. "Also in the service of Shattrath."

"I see." Hardal dropped into a crouch beside the campfire where the big stewpot simmered, and after a moment Marbrand settled down onto a rounded section of log nearby with a grunt of weariness. The elf looked to be musing. "My master believes we likely can't expect much aid from Outland aside from what we've already gathered, but I thought I should ask anyway. Is there any chance any other remnants of the expedition could be persuaded to take up this cause?"

Marbrand leaned back, feeling the log tilt precariously beneath him. "A good question. One I'm surprised Nex hasn't bothered to ask yet."

Hardal shrugged. "Lokiv has no doubt been informed of how unlikely it is to expect further aid. Still I thought I'd ask."

_Would any answer the call to aid humanity? Probably. Assuming they could be found. Would they answer that call from my lips, or even let me close enough to speak? _That he wasn't so sure of. "I doubt it. Most of the survivors have resigned themselves to life on Outland. And they take their service to Shattrath and the naaru seriously."

"And yet you're not with them," Hardal stated. "Ilinar spoke to me a bit concerning your history, and in your own right you and your men are true heroes of Azeroth. Why are you not serving Shattrath with your brothers in arms?"

Marbrand pushed to his feet. "Your pardon, Master Hardal, but I will not follow this avenue of discussion."

The Ranger pushed easily to his feet as well, looking apologetic. "No, Sir Marbrand, it is I who apologize. I knew it must be a touchy subject, but I pressed anyway. I will take you at your word that no further aid will be forthcoming. I also thank you for taking up this cause yourself, even after all you've sacrificed. I'll go and see about your water now."

Marbrand knew it was impolite, but still he couldn't bring himself to reply. After another moment the elf bowed and took his leave.

. . . . .

_'Ph'nglui mglw'nafh C'Thun Ahn'Quiraj wgah'nagl fhtagn.'_

Nex blinked and stared down at the hilt of the sword at his waist, where his fingers had come to rest without him realizing. He'd felt no pain at first, but now it was starting to build. Still he didn't take his hand away. _In his house at Ahn'Quiraj, dead C'Thun waits dreaming?_

The sword gave a mad burst of laughter. _'He understands the words, but the meaning escapes him.'_

_I'm no stranger to the mad ravings of the Twilight's Hammer cult._

_'They think too small, reach for too little. You reach also. I see you stretching forth your arm, grasping. But do you know what you catch?'_

_Nothing._

The sword's amusement was plain. _'Yes, nothing. There is nothing there for you to grasp hold of. It is all emptiness, devoid of future, ignorant of past. Much as you are.'_

_And what would you suggest?_

_'You know what I wish for.'_

_Yes. The complete destruction of all creation, and the incorporation of something more pure and perfect._

_'Do you have the ability to imagine such a thing?'_

_The human imagination is perfect. There is nothing it cannot envision._

_'Then all that remains is to ask; can you seek for such a future? I would be there for you, every step of the way.'_

_Be realistic, sword. There is no future, for neither of us has the power to obtain it._

He could feel the weapon's amusement. _'Not yet. There is a reason I selected you, Nothing. No one knows when the nothingness became creation, but worlds and suns and even the Twisting Nether itself have been around since the earliest dawn of the oldest races, and no __one can see back beyond that point. True nothingness is more rare than you think.'_

Before Nex could respond, if he could have even found a response to such a gnomic and arcane statement, Stormrage stopped abruptly and pointed. "You feel it."

Nex nodded. "My portal. Why are we here? For days I've been able to sense the much larger and more stable rift the blood elves and naga opened when they came through. It's more suited to our purposes."

"Yes. Only the rift my good servants Kael and Vashj opened leads to Dalaran. I have it on good authority that the Kirin Tor is marshaling the survivors of that city. They mean to clear it out and begin repairing it, which means that we'd be trying to land an army of elves in a city full of humans closely aligned with Garithos. The blood elves and humans will have to find another way."

Nex grimaced. "Yes, I can see how that would be a problem." Then he realized what his master had said. "What of the naga? How will they get back to Azeroth?"

Stormrage pointed north and east. "The Dark Portal. The original rift between Draenor and Azeroth. Humans out of Stormwind have begun construction of a keep in the northern part of the Blasted Lands, aptly named Netherguarde, but at the moment it remains little more than a fantasy. The naga will have no trouble in traveling unmolested, south to the sea and on their way."

"Won't that add more distance to their journey?"

The demonic night elf's lips pressed into a thin line. "Nazjatar resides within the region known as the Maelstrom, at least to surface dwellers. It is roughly the same distance from either portal, albeit more travel across land by the route they're taking. But since they have no need to fear enemy attacks Lady Vashj is happy with the tradeoff."

Nazjatar. So that was the name of the naga's capitol city. Interesting; his knowledge of those aquatic humanoids was incredibly limited, and it was always interesting to learn more. Some other time. "Back to my portal."

Stormrage laughed. "By Shadowsong's account you opened your portal north and west of Lordamere Lake, deep in a forest and well out of the way of any encroaching humans or undead. It's an ideal spot to safely bring an army through, and it has the added bonus of being slightly closer to our destination."

Nex nodded doubtfully. Yes, their destination. North into the high elf lands, in the hopes of finding one of their port cities intact, preferably with seaworthy ships. If not then they'd have to build their own, out of green wood no less, and that would make an already unpleasant voyage through the wild northern seas a perilous one.

Of course he had no need to worry about that just yet. "Shadowsong provided me with ample night elf relics to power my portal. I assume you-" he cut off, screaming midword as power surged through him, a torrent so great it made his head split in two. Or so it felt.

"I trust that will be enough. Be about it then, human. We're wasting time."

Nex was barely aware of his surroundings as he found the rift and ran his tongue across his back teeth, finding the spell engraved there. It took a bit of thinking to discover a way to reverse the portal, made all the harder by the power singing in his veins, and to add to that he found himself almost immediately fighting the demonic transformation.

"You've made no effort to master this since last we spoke, human?" Stormrage said reprovingly. Somewhere in the distance he heard the tramp of marching feet. "Cast the portal spell quick, before you're overwhelmed; the stability of the spell matrix should provide an anchor.

Nex flailed out, finding to his dismay that it was much easier to create a direct portal between himself and his master using the link than it was to punch through the rift he'd created and reverse it. But the power came when he called, and eventually a spherical ball took shape before him, lightly touching the ground and with images of trees and a grassy meadow bent along its convex surface, as if looking through a bubble at his destination.

To his vast relief he felt the demonic transformation subsiding, the power finding a new channel. Time became meaningless after that, and he was barely aware of hundreds of creatures passing through his portal in a column three wide, channeling power for what seemed hours as the suns passed overhead. When he finally came to himself the last of the blood elf wagons and their few ballistas were lumbering through, the portal barely large enough to accommodate them. Somewhere behind him the naga continued on eastward towards the Dark Portal.

Nex staggered to his feet, about to pass through, when he heard a clanking behind him and turned to see the group of humans lining up to enter.

Of course. He shouldn't have been surprised they were last.

Marbrand came forward, flanked by Blackfinger and Alvin. The scarred knight was staring at the portal in awe. "This will take us home?" he whispered.

Nex abruptly sagged as he felt the torrent of power within him fading to a trickle. His master had deemed what he'd been given sufficient; time was running out. "It will take you home. We must hurry."

Marbrand nodded and moved to pass him, the other humans marching forward, but Nex stepped forward to block their path. The leader of the ragged group paused, scowling, and behind them the other humans were tensing. This was home he was barring them from, and no doubt some would be willing to cut him down to get to it.

Marbrand seemed to sense the same thing, and to diffuse the situation he stepped back rather than trying to brush Nex aside. "What?" he growled.

"I require surety. Desertion is not an option."

"And how would you ensure such a thing if my oath isn't enough?" the burned knight demanded. "Do you mean to bind us to some demonic covenant until this campaign is complete?"

"Some might call it that." Nex drew out the folded parchment and a quill and inkwell.

Marbrand accepted them suspiciously. "What's this?"

"A contract. Stating that the Sons of Lothar will fight beside me until I quit the campaign in Northrend. Based upon my own oaths that will not happen until we achieve either victory or final defeat. Each of your men will put his name to this paper. If they cannot write it out you or one of your officers will do it for them. I will know if any deception is attempted."

Marbrand unfolded the paper and ran his eyes over it, mouth moving as he sounded out words. "You won't accept our oath, but this paper promise satisfies you?"

"Your oath is enough for me, knight. Much of human honor has been lost in the past decade, but it lives in you. And in your men, I'm sure. But if you cannot accept my terms now then the option to remain is still available to you."

Blackfinger spat, hands clenching at his sides. "You scrawny little shit! Remain, on this miserable hellish plain with no food or water? You're giving a choice between going or death."

Nex faced his anger calmly. "No. I gave you the choice to come nearly two weeks ago. You made that choice, and now you're here. Here is my end of the promise kept, now I need to be sure you'll keep your end." His power was slipping away, and his reserves were insufficient to keep the portal open much longer. "Time is running out."

The human commander scowled, but not so his men could see, and he lowered his voice. "Once we set sail for Northrend desertion will no longer be an option, and thereafter until the job is done. These men will do anything to go home, but as hard as I've tried to make them understand what they're getting into they won't truly realize their plight until it's too late. No desertions, I promise you."

"I'm sure." Nex dropped his voice down to where only the burned knight could hear. "If any of your men desert before this campaign is through, however, rest assured that I _will_ kill them. From here on out the situation is continue onward or die. The choice at the portal here is a fine symbol of that." He shouted to be heard once more. "Also in the contract is the promise of two thousand gold in payment upon completion of the campaign, redeemable at the Stormwind City Bank or any bank the nation of Azeroth has business with. A more than generous sum."

Marbrand was incensed, that was obvious, but he found a likely rock and dipped the quill into the ink. As he set his name to the parchment Nex spoke quietly. "I know this isn't what you wish, for yourself or your men. It's not what I wish for myself, either. Were the world a different way we would both be stepping through this portal free to go where we please."

Marbrand shrugged heavily with his armor hanging on his back. "What the Light requires of us, the Light must strengthen us for. That's a far greater comfort to me than your empty words."

For a moment Nex stood stunned, not so much by the words as because for the briefest moment it could've been Lightfinder standing there preaching to him. Marbrand must have seen something of that on his face. "What?"

"Nothing. You reminded me of someone, is all." Nex rolled up the contract and shoved it at the burned knight. "See your men sign. As soon as they do they can go through."

Marbrand was swift to do so, and such was Nex's hurry that as soon as each man signed he had them running through the portal. He had less than half a minute left, he feared, when Marbrand finally ducked through, last of the group. Nex paused to take a last look at the shattered world of Outland, took a deep breath of alien air, then stepped through as well.

. . . . .

Marbrand dropped to his knees, breathing the air of his home world. So different from the thin, sharp air of Outland, but at the same time not so very different at all. And while the soil was soft and dry under his knees it could easily have been the loam nestled beneath the boughs of an olemba tree in Terrokar.

But it wasn't. It was home. _He _was home. After so long, after resigning himself to a lifetime of futile war without any hope of a future, he had finally come home.

And yet it _was_ different. He could taste the hint of decay in the air as soon as his senses adjusted to this alien landscape that had once been so familiar. As he pushed to his feet with a grunt of effort he could see the sickly tint of the soil, the way the vegetation surrounding him bore hints of something vile and sickly. There were no signs of it yet in the trees, although some were growing large patches of strange fungus, something in the midst of the two extremes of nature and complete corruption, sagging and reeking of unnaturalness.

Nex had told the truth. If nothing else, then it was certain a plague had gripped this area north of Lordaeron where they found themselves. And if even the land itself had become diseased, it made it all the more likely that his beloved Azeroth was indeed torn, rent in the grip of this Scourge the young warlock had hinted at.

He'd accepted this deal on behalf of his men, to bring them home. And yet even though he'd thought he held no particular outrage for this Lich King and the Scourge it had unleashed upon the world of man, Marbrand felt outrage welling within him as he breathed in this corrupted air.

He was angry. Beyond his desire to return home, beyond his desire to rest after a lifetime of conflict. He'd left Azeroth and the northern kingdoms in peace, the threat of the Horde permanently drive back. But instead of being left to rebuild as they should've been a new threat had arisen. As if the human race was doomed to face one threat after another, ever greater, until finally it either overcame all or finally faltered and was annihilated.

Yes, he was angry. Angry at the world he'd been forced to return to. This diseased place where trees sagged and rotted and grass faded to dust before his very eyes, after he'd imagined his homecoming greeted with apple orchards and butterflies and the impossible image of Imogen waiting beneath the sweet-scented boughs.

It was nothing more than a mockery. His homecoming, nothing more than another slavery. His sword arm sold to the highest bidder, and all his dreams consigned to some distant future that would probably never come to pass. That would certainly never come to pass, for his beloved had perished even before he'd undertaken this suicidal mission to Draenor, and no one would ever take the place of such innocence and beauty.

Behind him the portal winked shut with an audible _thrum_, and Nex staggered against him before somehow miraculously catching his balance and straightening.

Marbrand surged to his feet, catching the slender youth by the collar of his cloak and lifting him from his feet. "This is what you return us to?" he snarled.

Less than an inch from his face Nex's bandaged eyes somehow held his calmly, and he could almost see black flames licking through the blindfold. He felt the cloth beneath his hands heating up, and unearthly fear probing at his mind. "You wish to do this, knight?" Nex said softly. "In front of your men?"

Marbrand growled and hurled him aside, not gently. Nex ducked into a light roll and came up to his feet completely unruffled, brushing a hint of dirt from his cloak. Marbrand yanked the contract from where he'd tucked it in his belt and handed it over.

Nex accepted it graciously, and when he spoke it was for all to hear. "I warned you of the world you were returning to. I can forgive you for the shock and anger you feel, but it's not me you should direct it at."

Marbrand turned away, opening his mouth to shout for his men to set camp, but he froze when he caught sight of the imposing winged shape of Illidan Stormrage approaching.

He hadn't expected to meet Lord Nex's master in person, and if the young warlock made him uneasy then this creature that looked like a demon with a dark-skinned elvish face filled him with extreme disquiet. He found himself falling to one knee. "My Lord."

Perhaps in solidarity, Nex had also gone to one knee. "Your orders?" he asked.

Stormrage motioned for them to stand. "We'll be separating here. Our path takes us north, through the devastation of Eversong and Quel'thalas. We will be sending parties out to gather in any blood elf survivors to bolster our numbers, as well as searching for supplies. Lastly we'll gather at Sunsail Anchorage with the hope that enough ships will remain to take us to Northrend. If not we will need to repair any ships wrecked by the Scourge forces, or in the last extremity build our own."

Nex didn't seem particularly interested in this. "And my path?"

"South and west. Through the shattered remains of Lordaeron, Alterac, and Dalaran. You'll raise the banner of the Sons of Lothar and try to draw refugees or elements of the Alliance army remnants to our cause. Then to northern Silverpine where you will find a port city and commandeer ships."

Marbrand couldn't help himself, he spoke. "Pardon, my Lord, but we cannot raise the banner of the Sons of Lothar. We were formally released from that command, and the Sons of Lothar remain as a distinct unit on Outland commanded by Lord Danath Trollbane."

Stormrage turned an imperious glance his way, made all the more unnerving by the fel green fires glowing behind his blindfold. "You must, Sir Marbrand. You are going to be traveling through the shattered lands of Lordaeron gathering recruits. Do you think people will flock to a filthy rag on a stick raised by a bunch of ragged men who look the worst sort of ruffian? You left Azeroth as Sons of Lothar and as Sons of Lothar you return. Not skulks seeking to tear sons from the arms of their mothers, but heroes returned in humanity's hour of need to rally the people of Lordaeron against their enemy."

Marbrand shook his head stubbornly. "Even if we wished to raise that banner, we have no banner to raise."

The sinister elf smiled, baring canines even longer than Nex's. "Your leader anticipated your need, and the blood elf tailors were more than happy to oblige." Stormrage motioned curtly behind him, and four elves strode forward bearing large trunks. "Uniforms for your officers," he said, leaning down to open the first one and withdrawing a large folded cloth. He flapped it open, using some clever trick of magic to keep it unfurled and off the ground.

On a background of blue so potent it possessed almost a metallic sheen the silver lion of Anduin Lothar roared out. Actual cloth-of-silver, he was sure, and the border of the standard was stitched with cloth-of-gold. With another smooth flapping motion Stormrage had the banner refolding itself to fit in the trunk. "The opportunity presents itself to you, Sir Marbrand. I will look forward to rendezvousing with the recruits you've managed to gather, once we are all in Northrend."

Nex spoke up, seeming unimpressed by the princely gifts. "Lordaeron was devastated by the Scourge. You think there'll be ships to be found after we've made our tour through those lands?"

The green fires behind the blindfold blazed. "For your sake I would hope so, human. You have the longer route to travel, by land and sea both. I would suggest you make all speed. If you know of no port cities in the area you'd best question your recruits closely and find one. As soon as we make landing on Northrend the Lich King will know our intent, and he will call his servant Arthas Menethil to his side, along with all the Scourge forces in northern Eastern Kingdoms. You do not want to be slower than those reinforcements, for all our sakes."

The young human bowed in response, and Stormrage turned and stalked away. The elvish tailors had already returned to where their forces were setting up camp.

"It's a difficult task he sets us," Marbrand murmured when he was out of earshot.

Nex frowned. "We'll have to split up. I can move swiftly when necessary. I'll take the longer route, swing south of Lordamere Lake and seek recruits in Alterac, Hillsbrad, and Dalaran, coming up through Silverpine Forest on my way. You go north of the lake and on into Tirisfal. Do you know northern Lordaeron?"

Marbrand concentrated, trying to remember the maps of the northlands he'd seen. Finally he shrugged. "If not I'm sure I've men who do."

"Fair enough. I'll meet you north of the ruins of city Lordaeron." Nex paused. "The Scourge will have a strong presence north of the lake, whatever victories the Alliance armies may have managed. Travel quickly, and don't send our recruiting parties out too far."

He smiled grimly. "I know my business, boy. What of the Alliance army?"

Nex returned that grim smile. "You're human, and you're Sons of Lothar. Garithos will shit himself with happiness at the sight of you. Just don't mention anything about Stormrage or our naga and blood elf allies."

Marbrand felt his smile curdle. Garithos. By the Light, he hoped he didn't have to meet that man. After hearing what he'd done to the blood elves, he was afraid he wouldn't be able to stop himself from killing him.

To avoid that thought he quickly immersed himself in the business of setting up camp on the southwest side of the clearing, well away from where the blood elves and naga had disappeared into the trees. Nex took the time to climb the nearest tree and simply sat, motionless, blindfolded face turned southward. Marbrand didn't know if it was memory that held the man in contemplation, or if he sensed some dark power in the distance. With a shudder he turned away, not wanting to find out.

Just before nightfall a group of elves passed close to their camp, led by a woman in the robes of a mage. She was striking even by elvish standards, almost like a bonfire given elvish form, and the camp fell silent as she passed by, aloof. Yet her eyes kept darting to where Nex crouched on his tree branch, and although his back was to her and the party was moving silently as soon as she was nearest the young man leapt backwards off the branch, tucked into a neat backflip with a twist, and came down facing her.

Marbrand was barely close enough to hear their conversation, such as it was. It seemed far more went unsaid than said.

"Lokiv," she said coolly. Her eyes fell upon the strange diamond-hilted sword Nex wore, the one Marbrand couldn't quite figure out. A holy weapon, but one sheathed so its power was restrained?

"Mistress Saire," he replied.

"I see the sword found its way to you."

"Yes. I understand I have you to thank for it."

"You may thank Velansar."

"I'd like nothing more." Blackfinger found it amusing that even Redcrest's own people seemed to despise him. Nex continued. "It wasn't really searching for me, you know."

Her eyebrow arched, and Marbrand wondered at the mixture of emotions in her delicate features. "Oh?"

Nex didn't answer the unspoken question. Instead he changed the subject entirely. "The north-south Dalaran ley line passes near here, doesn't it?"

The beautiful elf woman was about to answer when one of her companions caught her arm. "Mage," he growled. She turned an irritated glance at him, spared one last cool look at Nex, and then turned and strode away.

Until she was out of sight the camp was quiet, and then the men began murmuring their appreciation and speculation, as well as the usual share of wishful thinking and absurd boasting. Alvin sauntered over to lean against the tree, glancing over to where Lord Nex had once more turned to face southwards. "You totally nailed her, didn't you?"

Nex craned his head around to peer silently at the scout for an awkwardly long time, then turned and walked over to Marbrand, motioning curtly. "With me, Sir. We have things to discuss."

. . . . .

Saire was feeling an odd mix of eagerness and fear as her patrol took the long route to the southwestern portion of the forest and did a half-mile sweep. She was looking forward to destroying undead, far more than she'd enjoyed kill demons, draenei, or fel orcs. Oh sure, she had a particular hatred for the orcs that had tried to burn their way into Quel'thalas during the Second War, and knew on an intellectual level that the demons had been responsible for creating the Scourge.

But it wasn't demons who had burned her home, or harried her people every step of the way south to the shores of Lordamere Lake. It was undead faces that populated her nightmares, rotting and dry, brittle and crackling, shrieking in the agony of inhabiting a body that was rotting around them.

She kept hoping they'd run into a Scourge patrol, even though again intellectually she knew there could be no greater disaster; before they could make their way to Northrend they'd have to retrace the path the Corona's Blaze refugees had taken south, and that path was fraught with peril. If the undead discovered them they'd find themselves harried every step of the way, perhaps even give enough advance warning that the traitor Arthas and his minions would have time to reach Northrend before them and cut them off.

If that happened their cause was lost. The force that had ripped through the combined armies of Lordaeron, Dalaran, Hillsbrand, and Quel'thalas would have little trouble destroying their paltry few thousand.

Sometime after nightfall Corporal Hadenar declared the area secure, and they made swift time back to camp. It was astonishing to see the change that had come over the place in only a few short hours, the milling blood elves settling into orderly lines. Saire broke away from the patrol and made her way to the mage's tent, but almost as soon as she got inside she was accosted by one of her fellow mages, a curvy, platinum blond with close-cropped hair and sultry eyes named Tyene.

"You have a message," she said, shoving a folded paper Saire's way.

Saire glanced at the letter, torn in one corner and crinkled. The woman hadn't even tried to hide her prying. "What does it say?"

The woman's eyes danced with the prospect of scandal. "It's not long."

Saire tore open the letter and her eyes darted down to the signature. Surprisingly elegant and written in very small letters, which was probably necessary considering the "name" was a phrase in demonic that was several words long. She only recognized the first word. _Nex_.

She was disgusted with herself when she realized her stomach was fluttering, and in spite of her annoyance her eyes skimmed over the few lines in excitement. His signature was almost longer than the note itself. Then, puzzled, she read the letter more carefully.

Since it was written by Lokiv the words were blunt and the meaning plain. She stared at the parchment, the little hope she felt morphing to join with the annoyance in forming rage. _This_ was what he wanted?

"What does it mean?" Tyene asked, full of titillated excitement.

Saire shot the woman a cool glance. "None of your business. I'll be going to the human camp for a short time."

The mage frowned in disapproval. "Oh, Saire, you know you're not to leave the camp. Particularly not on some assignation with a lokiv."

_It's not just _a _lokiv._ "This is no tryst," she said, some of her anger at Lokiv transferring to her fellow mage. "I'm keeping a promise I made. One I've already failed to honor on more than one occasion. If you wish to stop me you're welcome to try."

But apparently the woman wasn't interested in trying. Saire hurried out of the tent.

. . . . .

Nex slowed as he approached the clearing, glad Saire was there to show him exactly where to go. He had a general idea, but tracing arcane ley lines wasn't one of his talents.

She looked decidedly unhappy to see him. But then again, that was nothing out of the ordinary these days. He bowed slightly when he arrived. "Mistress Saire."

Her reply was cool. "Master Lokiv."

What was it she wanted, an exchange of pleasantries? Very well. "I understand you've been training exhaustively these last few weeks."

For the first time he saw some hint of thawing. "Yes. I've even learned a new ability, would you like to see it?"

"Anything to pass the time."

It must've been the wrong answer, but instead of returning to chill she blazed hot. "Fine," she snapped. "It's called Dragon's Breath." And without hesitation she lifted her hands to her mouth and began drawing power.

Extensive amounts of power.

Nex used his second sight to inspect the spell matrix she was creating, although most of it was internal. Focused around the area between her cupped hands and her mouth, however, he was able to discern enough to surmise that it was a forward directional cone type attack, similar to Cone of Cold. Only it was very, very potent flames she was gathering.

Then it clicked that her spell was nearly complete, in fact had a very short cast time, and he was standing directly in front of her. With a curse he threw himself to the side, hastily throwing up a flimsy shield as he fell. Above and behind him the air went incandescent with heat, the periphery of the spell licking at his shield but not quite enough to shatter it. Saire could've turned to follow him as he dodged, but instead she'd kept this Dragon's Breath pointed where he'd been.

He was still pissed as he came smoothly to his feet, drawing his own power in preparation to silence her. "What the hell?"

"That's what _I_ should be asking," she shot back.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She put her hands on her hips, and if anything the attempt to burn him to cinders had only increased her indignation. "After all the time we spent together, you've been completely ignoring me! You couldn't even be bothered to visit, say hello, ask how I'm doing?"

Nex was taken aback. "I-I didn't think you wanted me to-"

"And then when you finally _do_ send me a message, it has nothing to do with us at all!"

His shock swiftly darkening into anger he was barely able to control, Nex carefully straightened and brushed a few clods of dirt off his cloak. "You seem to be under a misapprehension concerning us, Mistress Saire. We are not lovers, nor are you subordinate to me any longer. This familiarity you're showing is unseemly, and you should be glad I consider what appears to be an overt attempt to kill me nothing more than a jilted lover's show of temper."

"_Jilted lover?_" She practically screeched. "You son of a bitch!"

"If you're so outraged by the fact that I never sought you out, you should consider that you never sought me out, either."

"Don't you try to turn this around on me like you always do. It's not the woman's _job_ to seek out the man! _You're_ supposed to be chasing _me_."

Nex frowned. "But I'm not. Let's leave it at that, shall we?" _And I'm starting to deeply regret the one night we spent together, if for no other reason than it's apparently turned you into a psycho bitch._

Thankfully at that moment Marbrand approached through the woods, Ilinar Montfere in tow. The boy was looking around curiously, obviously sleepy but excited by this nighttime adventure.

As soon as the boy caught sight of Nex and Saire, however, he went still. Marbrand reached back and caught his shoulder, tugging him along. "My Lord," he said curtly. He turned to Saire and bowed. "Mistress. I assume you'll be the one creating the portal."

Montfere's eyes snapped away from their sullen inspection of Saire. "What?"

Nex stepped forward, so the three of them were effectively boxing Montfere in. "The north-south Dalaran ley line intersects this point, Montfere. Saire has the ability to tap into it to create a portal leading to the mage tower within any major city."

The boy grinned. "Where are we going? Is this for recruiting? Are we going to meet a king or a lord?"

"Perhaps. The portal will take you to the magetower within Stormwind City." Nex motioned, and Saire slipped the folded note into the boy's hand. "There's a letter of introduction to a mage by the name of Perival Manaspark. You will also be given a generous sum of gold. While irritating as only a gnome can be, Manaspark is a fairly kind person. With Saire's recommendation and his own assessment of your potential I'm sure he'll be pleased to accept you as an apprentice."

Montfere looked between them desperately. He'd evidently only now realized that this wasn't a recruitment mission or something of the like, but that he was being sent away. "No, you can't!"

Saire's voice was oddly gentle. "It's for your own safety, Ilinar. You'll be well cared for in Stormwind, and grow into the strength within you."

"But you _can't_ send me away, I signed the contract!"

Nex shot Marbrand a glance, and the knight flinched slightly. "You did what?"

The boy glared at him. "I'm a Son of Lothar! I _had_ to sign the contract, and now I have to keep it!"

"As holder of the contract I release you from service," Nex said in annoyance. "Why are you balking, boy? You want to go off to Northrend and freeze to death?"

Montfere's expression turned almost sulky. "We're not going to die. You fought a naaru and won, didn't you? Get powerful, Saire says, but what I say is all those humans in Stormwind can teach me is how to sit on my ass talking and doing nothing."

"Language, Squire," Marbrand barked.

The boy flinched but didn't relent. "I can learn fighting, _real_ fighting, from the Sons of Lothar, and Lokiv can teach me everything I need to know about magic."

Nex's irritation grew. "I already told you I know nothing of the type of-"

"-And you think those fat mages in Stormwind do?" Montfere crossed his arms. "You'd better hurry to the coast, then, because as soon as I get to Stormwind I'm heading straight north again, and I'm going to be running as fast as I can. Even if you leave me behind I'll try to follow."

Marbrand cursed and turned aside to kick at a tree. Nex thought grimly of the tram system between Stormwind and Ironforge, and wondered how long it would take a single boy on foot to catch up to them from Khaz Modan. He'd probably be able to get a horse, too, assuming Nex actually gave him the promised gold after that ludicrous threat.

"Easy way to solve this," Saire said in exasperation. "We just tie him up with a note and a bag of gold on his chest, and the mages of Stormwind can keep him there until he stops trying to run away. He's a child, by the Sunwell, he doesn't get to make his own decisions."

Montfere whirled to face her, tears of anger streaming down his face. "Oh there's a nice easy answer for you. Are you sure you wouldn't rather just leave me to die in Netherstorm again?"

Marbrand's voice cracked like a whip. "Squire! You will always comport yourself with politeness towards a lady, or you'll feel the lick of my belt."

The boy faced him as well. "Why do you care how I comport myself, you're dumping me aside too! You know what, Lokiv's a bastard but at least he's the only one who's had the decency to make it obvious he doesn't give a damn about me. The rest of you try to pretend but do the same things he does!"

Nex laughed. "All right, Montfere. You want to be a Son of Lothar?" The boy nodded, while Marbrand and Saire both glared at him. "I don't think Marbrand's going to agree to it. How would you like to be my standard bearer?"

Montfere went still, almost brimming with hope. Nex smiled grimly; if the boy wanted to die who was he to refuse him? He was no stranger to such desires. "It's going to be a brutal journey, and I don't mean to slow down for you, but if you think you could catch us coming all the way from Stormwind then no doubt you're fleet-footed enough for it."

"Gods damn you, Nex," Marbrand growled. "You're doing the boy no favors by this. He'll come to regret his decision before a week has passed."

"Then let him. It won't change his decision or the consequences of it. He's old enough to make his choices and live by them."

"Then he'd better be damned certain he understands what he's doing."

"I do!" Montefere insisted. "I'm not afraid of death. I've already seen it."

"You've seen the deaths of others," the burned knight corrected. "You've seen battles and slayings. That doesn't make any man ready to march into certain death."

"He understands it better than you think," Saire said.

Marbrand shot her a pained look. "Mistress . . ."

"I apologize for wasting your time, Mistress Saire," Nex said. "You may go. Montfere, with me." He walked from the clearing, and within three steps the boy was at his side.

Behind them Marbrand remained stiffly unmoving in the clearing until Nex's attention drifted away from him.


	6. Strahnbrad

Chapter Five

Strahnbrad

"We're almost there, right?" Montfere asked, looking dubiously at the ruined farmhouse, which looked as if it had been torn apart by a tornado. Aside from the claw marks all over the wood and stone. All of that was old, however, so Nex wasn't particularly wary.

"This is the second farm we've passed in an hour. From what I know of human settlements the closer you get to a town the more closely the farms are clumped."

"From what you know," the boy repeated, sounding amused. "Everyone in your army hated you for being human, but you really aren't, are you?"

That shouldn't have stung, but Nex was surprised to find it did. He turned away. "Let's go."

As Montfere hurried to follow he heard the boy mutter to himself. "At least I'll get an actual meal finally."

Ah yes. It was a small matter to slay small creatures they passed, but Nex had no idea how to properly skin or cook them. He left that up to Montfere and his heavy knife even though the boy was equally clueless. It was him who needed to eat, after all. But it meant that for a while there the boy had been eating meat that was burned, raw, or tainted from ruptured intestines.

More to the point, Nex was looking forward to finally reaching Strahnbrad as well. He'd kept his eyes open for any sign of potential recruits along the way but the road, major as it was, had been disturbingly empty of human presence.

The alliance camp at Chillwind Point had been abandoned when they passed through. Azeroth's banner, the golden lion on its blue field, hung torn and tattered from a broken pole at one end of the muddy, rubbish-strewn ground. By the looks of it they hadn't fled attack, and his second sight found no traces of blood on the ground except those that were far too old. More likely reassignment.

Nex was somewhat disappointed to see it. He had no love for those soldiers, though he'd never met them. And they had scant cause to love him, having once served under Puros Lightfinder, and sent north from city Stormwind where he'd been branded a murderer and thief. Still the fools were honorable, and honorable men were just the sort he'd expect to exuberantly accept the call to arms for a suicidal mission to Northrend.

Unfortunately the signs of the departed men took them west, along the road that curved up and around northward to the western bridge into Andorhol, or along the river and into Tirisfal. He'd already skirted Andorhol and seen it was a haven of the undead, no recruits to be found there, and anyway his road took him south into Alterac.

Still, it was a temptation to follow their trail. He could find the Alliance army, most likely, or even just those who'd watched Chillwind. A guarantee he'd find soldiers he could try to recruit. On the other hand those soldiers from the nation of Azeroth likely kept contact with Stormwind, and if they recognized him he'd be fighting enemies rather than trying to recruit allies.

No, let Marbrand try to sway them. They were heading that direction anyway, and the Sons of Lothar were sure to find them. He'd continue on south and west to Strahnbrad.

Montfere asked a few questions about the camp, but he was more subdued than Nex had expected a boy of his age to be. He'd spoken little on their hard journey, and while some of it may have been the pace Nex set even in camp more often then not the half-elf simply rolled into his blankets after eating, though Nex could see plainly that it took him hours to go to sleep, and often he awoke in the night and moved a short distance from camp. Nex never followed; it wasn't in either of their natures to seek out idle conversation.

In fact, the only thing Montfere seemed interested in talking about was training. With torpedoes, with his heavy throwing knife, with a stick for a sword. The boy often glanced at NexTaeja with a mixture of awe and envy, and had even asked to hold the sword once or twice. Since Nex was wary of releasing the insane holy blade from its protective sheath he'd refused, and again when Montfere suggested he could draw the sword himself without coming to harm.

The idea of an inexperienced boy unleashing the weapon was more than simply disquieting.

The road took them past a wide valley on their right, continuing to hug the mountain range. Nex might have wondered why if he hadn't known that Strahnbrad was up on a plateau above the western edge of the valley, the road at near the same elevation. In fact they should come in sight of the town and outlying settlements around this next bend.

In fact it was around the second bend they passed, and when Nex caught sight of the place he slowed to a halt. It wasn't for the view, either.

Strahnbrad looked like a ghost town.

Oh certainly, the buildings remained in reasonable repair, as if the town had only been recently abandoned. But rubbish lined the streets and the empty camps outside its walls, and there was not a single person in sight aside from the half dozen sentries atop the wall, huddling away from the icy blasts of wind sweeping down from the snow-capped peaks of Alterac to the northwest. From the signs of battle along the base of the wall he assumed the place had come under attack sometime in the recent past.

"_That's_ where we're staying the night?" Montfere demanded.

Nex made no reply. In truth he was shocked at the change that had come over Strahnbrad in so short a time. When he'd come through here tailing Lightfinder, letting the paladin lead him by the quickest path to Ironforge on his way to Stormwind via the gnomes' damnable tunnel, the city had been a major staging point for the Alliance army, with a sizable garrison as well as being a major location for military business such as blacksmiths, farriers, tailors, and leatherworkers. He'd passed several supply caravans coming from the south, most notably the dwarven provisions out of Ironforge or Aerie Peak.

It appeared the Alliance garrison had abandoned this town, same as it had abandoned Chillwind Point to the northeast. General retreat, or was Garithos preparing for a major push against the traitor Arthas and his minions holed up in Lordaeron city?

A concern for Marbrand, but not for him. Still he hoped he wouldn't arrive at the proposed rendezvous sans any Sons of Lothar to take north. "Unfurl the banner," he ordered Montfere tersely. The boy fumbled with the staff he held, loosing the ties on the fine blue and silver banner. As soon as it was out Nex started towards the nearest gates. It was possible to get around Strahnbrad and continue through the mountains, but unless you wanted to climb well out of your way they'd be in range to shoot arrows at you. Not that he wanted to go around.

The sentries started popping up when he was about fifty yards out. "Halt!" one shouted. Nex halted, although he was somewhat annoyed at the distance, since conversation would be more difficult shouting at each other.

He waited for the men to speak, maybe ask his business, but they only stared at him with open hostility. "I'm only a single man with a boy accompanying me," he called back. "Do I have your permission to enter the city?"

"What's your business?" the sentry called, still sounding just as suspicious.

Nex motioned to Montfere, and the boy shook the pole enthusiastically, sending the Sons of Lothar banner snapping and unfurling in the breeze. "Recruiting through here on our way to Tarren Mill and beyond. Are you going to open the gates?"

"Where did you come from? On whose orders do you make this recruiting run?"

"On my own." Nex motioned Montfere to stop his damn waving. "Why is Strahnbrad locked down so tightly? Why the suspicion? Have there been Scourge attacks?"

For a moment he thought none of the sentries would answer, and then one spoke reluctantly. "Not recently." He dropped down, and Nex watched him pull aside the heavy logs that barred the gate. A moment later it creaked open, the man peering out suspiciously.

Nex immediately strode forward, motioning for Montfere to follow close behind. He would've thought being fifty yards away and approaching at a walk wouldn't catch anyone by surprise, but the sentries reacted as if he'd shouted a warcry and charged the gate, holding their weapons defensively even after he came to within ten feet. As he passed the man who'd opened the gate he inclined his head. "If I could trouble you, I'd like to speak to the citizens of Strahnbrad. Some may wish to join up."

"No speaking," the sentry said firmly. "You're welcome to stay the night, buy food and supplies if you've the coin. But we don't want any trouble."

He frowned. "The Alterac revised charter states that no one is to deny legitimate recruiters the chance to make their offer. You'd only be bringing more troubles down on Strahnbrad by refusing me." That was complete bullshit, of course. Nex had a general idea how Alterac had fared over the years, but Lynda, a confirmed renegade and wanted fugitive, hadn't exactly had access to treaties and contracts within the Seven Kingdoms. Still it sounded official, and he doubted these yokels knew either.

The ragged man laughed. "What would you do, go running off and find an Alliance force with the spare time to come massacre a bunch of living people for being truculent? Even if you managed it Strahnbrad would be gone by the time you returned."

"Keep your mouth shut, Joric!" one of the other sentries up on the wall snarled.

Interesting. There was something wrong in this town, some danger, and these men didn't want him to know about it. Because they were crooked and wary of being found out, or because they were victims and suspected him of being the enemy?

Immaterial. "This place looks like a ghost town, but you wouldn't be defending it if it was. Where's the inn?"

After a reluctant pause the youngest sentry was instructed to lead them to the Fiddle and the Drum. A distinctly military sounding name for an inn, which might explain its prosperity before the army pulled out. The youth was perhaps only a few years older than Montfere and had a short bow slung across his back, and as he led them he seemed oddly incurious about them and reluctant to talk.

"Have you heard of the Sons of Lothar?" Nex asked him when they were out of earshot of the gate.

"Ain't no one that name," the boy muttered sullenly. "All left twelve years gone."

Interesting. Alterac wasn't known for its love of the Alliance, but Nex would've expected anyone of a certain age to have stars in their eyes when it came to talk of heroes like the Sons. Maybe Strahnbrad hadn't been so happy about being "garrisoned" by the Alliance army. Or maybe they weren't so happy when that garrison abandoned them.

Maybe both. Humans weren't always logical about the things they resented.

"And the Scourge? They're right at your doorstep. You could be the hero who ends their threat and saves your town from suffering the same fate as Andorhol or Hearthglen."

The boy made a rude gesture. "That for the Scourge," he snapped. He pointed at a three-storey building with a large wing making an L shape around a stable yard, the stables a bit off with a small farrier's shed abutting them. "In there and talk to a fellow named Vac. Don't wander around."

Nex inclined his head and headed for the inn's front door, Montfere coming along behind. "Keep that banner unfurled but don't wave it in anyone's face." The boy nodded, and Nex pushed through the door and into the common room.

Like many inns he'd seen in Seven Kingdoms, the entrance was raised, as was the bar in back with the door leading to the kitchens, while the main part of the common room between two roaring hearths was recessed two feet lower with a step leading down then back up. Off at one end near one of the hearths a stairway led up out of view to the rooms.

No innkeeper rushed forward to greet them. The portly man behind the bar nodded sullenly their way, then his eyes darted over to where three ragged armed men sprawled around a table in front of the left hearth. Vac and his cronies, Nex assumed. He walked over to them. "I was told to speak to you."

"No need, blind man," the man growled, not even looking up. "You can stay in the common room or head up to your rooms, but don't try to leave."

"Am I a prisoner?" No reply. "I represent the Sons of Lothar. I'm here recruiting for-"

The man's tankard slammed down onto the table. "I don't want to hear it. If you've coin get food and a room, or spend the night in the cellar. We're done talking here."

Nex was about to answer with a subtle push against the man's mind and a firmer insistence when a distant shriek came to his ears. It was muffled by the walls of the inn, barely louder than the crackling of the fires, but he wasn't the only one who heard it. Vac cursed quietly and leapt to his feet, making for the door with his two men in tow. Nex motioned Montfere to stay and followed. Of course the boy was right behind him as they left the inn and headed back the to the gate they'd come through.

He arrived in time to see a young woman, maybe only a few years younger than him, staggering through the gate. Beyond the gate he saw an ogre lying prone, a feathered shaft through one eye and a few more sticking from the pale, sweaty skin of its protruding gut. Even with the threat presented by the ogre the sentries had been far more willing to open the gate for her. Her face was bloody, and one arm hung awkwardly. He could see with his second sight that her shoulder was broken, as well as two ribs. She had to be tough, to be able to move with that sort of pain.

"What is it, Jeanne?" the one named Joric demanded. His concern sounded far more than professional.

She swayed, then sagged against one of the older sentries as if he was the only thing keeping her up. It took her a few seconds to catch her breath enough to speak. "Attacked."

"Was it the Syndicate?" A few sentries glanced over at Nex, suspicious, but he merely looked back at them impassively.

Jeanne was shaking her head. "Ogres. Came down at us out of some high mountain pass." She gripped the man holding her tightly with her good hand. "You have to help Father! He and Marden might still be alive!"

Nex finally stepped forward. "Which direction?"

Vac glared at him. "Keep out of this, blind man. We'll settle it."

"You're welcome to help, if you can keep up." Without waiting for an answer Nex sprinted out the gate, pushing Joric back when the man tried to restrain him. He didn't really need to know which direction, since he could see the subtle imprint of the young woman's steps leading him a clear trail north towards the mountains, as well as the far more obvious sign left by the dead ogre. Behind him he heard cursing and the tramp of booted feet as most of the sentries followed.

Altruism was all well and good, but Stormrage had a point about one thing; it was far easier to win the support of hostile strangers after you'd helped them. Assuming these ogres weren't much of a threat it cost him little to kill them, and in any case he had no love for the brutish creatures. The warlike eight foot tall humanoids had come through the Dark Portal en masse to fight alongside the Horde, and when the orcs were ultimately defeated the ogres had scattered in every direction rather than fleeing back through the Dark Portal alongside the remnants of the Horde. In the last decade they'd been making a nuisance of themselves from Stranglethorn to Quel'thalas, raiding from the wilds, butchering and stealing. By all accounts they were impossible to negotiate with.

It turned out he didn't have to go far. Generally raiders tended to stay far away from large settlements and towns, but these ogres had approached to within a mile of the walls, a narrow mountain pass leading farther north. Even in its current state Strahnbrad should have been daunting enough to keep them away, unless it was in worse trouble than he'd realized. Perhaps that was where this "Syndicate" Joric had mentioned came in.

Three of the creatures, one male and two larger females. A younger man he assumed was Marden was pulp on the ground farther up the pass, while an older man who had to be Jeanne's father was scrabbling up a slope of scree, the male ogre awkwardly trying to follow while the two females flung stones. It was obvious several had already connected; the man dragged one useless leg, leaving behind a trail of blood.

Nex tugged aside the left flap of his cloak and opened his dimensional pocket portal, yanking out a torpedo that he sent flying for one of the females. It bounced off her skull and sent her staggering, surprised at the unexpected attack. The blow would have cracked wood and shattered normal bone, but the huge creature just shook her head and pushed back to her feet; hard to brain something that doesn't have much of a brain.

In spite of the chill none of the ogres were wearing much more than breechclouts, exposing heavy, sagging folds of fat over thick bones and solid muscle. It would be hard to tell the difference between male and female by looking at their breasts, even bare as they were.

Nex yanked out another pair of torpedoes and threw them with either hand at the male ogre, who was still following the older man and seemed oblivious to the attack coming from behind. This time the torpedoes hit and dug in, one through its neck and the other through the back of his skull. Even so the ogre managed to stagger another few steps forward, clutching stupidly upwards as if trying to pull them free, before it fell onto its face and went still.

The females bellowed in rage and began hurling rocks at him. Their aim wasn't poor, but it was a small matter for him to dodge as he hurled a few more torpedoes, bringing the nearer of the females down with one lodged in her heart. The other picked up a rock the size of Nex's head and charged forward, somehow knocking the next two torpedoes he threw out of the air. Across her sagging belly an ugly purple bruise was spreading from the one torpedo that had hit her, bouncing off instead of penetrating, but it didn't slow her at all.

Nex met her charge with a torpedo in each hand, ducking beneath her clumsy swing and slamming the torpedo in his left hand into her elbow. He could feel the point of it digging into the joint, locking it, and even though he doubted it had broken any bones she was still slowed as she swung back, unable to bend her arm. He ducked again, slamming the flat of the torpedo into the side of her knee as if it were a club. It didn't do much, but it knocked her off-balance just enough that he was able to get behind her.

At that point it was simple to leap up high enough to plant a foot into the waistband of her breechclout, giving him the leverage he needed to drive his remaining torpedo into her throat, yank it sideways in a spray of blood to tear her neck artery open, then leap away.

The ogre gave an agonized bellow and spun, rock whistling past, but Nex was already ten feet away and watching. She came after him, staggering and becoming more and more weak and clumsy as she bled to death, and it was easy to dance out of her reach. As soon as she fell and couldn't get up he strode forward and drove the torpedo through her left eye and into her brain, killing her.

With a slight grimace he turned, trying to shake the blood off his cloak and sleeves, to face down the pass to where the four sentries and Montfere were all staring at him.

Farther up the scree slope the man he'd saved collapsed in a mini landslide, and Nex started over to retrieve him.

. . . . .

"You've my thanks," the older man said again. It turned out his name was Gamry. Nex made no reply as he finished splinting his leg and wrapping the bandages. It turned out soldiers weren't the only thing the people of this town lacked; the army had also taken anyone with the slightest skill at healing. Even Nex's limited skill with bandaging and rudimentary first aid was better than what anyone else could manage.

"Are you some kind of hero?" the girl Jeanne asked. She was resting in a comfortable seat by the fire, her injuries already tended to as best Nex could manage. There had been a rather long, heated debate about which he should see to first, both father and daughter insisting he help the other first. Nex had eventually told them both to shut up and got to work.

At most other times in his life that sort of question would've probably been tinged with disbelief, if not outright derision, but with his fine clothes, Montfere as his squire, and the banner of the Sons of Lothar he apparently seemed legitimate. Even if people kept glancing at his blindfold; no one had had the courage to ask him how he moved so naturally without his eyes.

"I'm a man in service to humanity," he said in answer. Suitably vague while maintaining the appearance of humility. "I'm here to recruit anyone who'll come on a mission to Northrend to end the threat of the Scourge once and for all."

Vac laughed harshly. "The threat of the Scourge. Why go sailing o'er a thousand miles for an enemy when there's one at our very doorstep?"

"The ogres? I doubt they'll be so bold after this."

Gamry shook his head grimly. "No, lad. The ogres are a problem, aye, but they're not the ones raiding us at every turn. We have Aliden to thank for that."

The man said the name as if it should mean something, so Nex considered it. "Aliden Perenolde, Prince of Alterac?"

A few of the men spat. "Prince of murderers and bandits, mebbe," Joric said.

That confused Nex. "Aliden Perenolde is the son of Aiden Perenolde, your former king. He's the lawful heir, and your liege lord. You are duty bound to serve him."

It was Gamry's turn to spit. "Ain't our lawful nothing. He's the son of a traitor, 'n I heared he had something to do with it too. Anyway blood tells, 'n his blood's black with treachery, same as the old king. Ain't nothing he's done proved otherwise."

"That's still no cause to rebel against him. A treacherous lord gets taken hostage. A treacherous peasant gets hanged. You should know that."

"Ain't no treachery. Ain't no decision ever been made on the succession."

Nex blinked. "How is that possible? It's been over ten years since the Alliance put Alterac under marshal law."

"Oh aye. Lots of dispute over the succession to begin. Old Terenas wanted Aliden to have it at first. Graymane in Gilneas spoke for King Perenolde's nephew, Isiden. Then Terenas wised up 'bout putting treacherous Perenolde blood on the throne and started pulling for our good Lord Prestor. Was a much-loved man throughout the Seven Kingdoms, was Prestor, and all would've supported his rule. But then he disappeared out of the blue, and you can bet Aliden had something to do with that anyhow."

Did he? Prestor's name was whispered often in dark circles, as was that of his wife, the Lady Katrana. Some even claimed he'd used sorcery to sway those who opposed his desire to rule Alterac. "That was a long time ago. Order hasn't been restored since?"

The old man spat again; evidently this talk left a foul taste in his mouth. "After Prestor's disappearance Aliden must've figgered he wasn't getting the crown by talk, so's he come back and started stirring trouble in northern Alterac. Formed an organization he called the Syndicate and began raiding down into Hillsbrad and Stromguarde. He's caused so much chaos, and what with the taxes all the kingdoms been paying to fund the orcish internment camps before them filthy brutes broke free and scarpered, that nobody seemed interested in doing nothing about Alterac. We coulda been asking for help for forever and they never would've come, once we was more problem than prize."

"That's a common trait among lords and rulers. They're all far more interested in seeing that oaths to them are kept, and forget their own oaths to prosper and protect their sworn people."

"True enough. That's why we washed our hands of the lot and keeps to ourselves."

"Still, I wonder how Strahnbrad's survived so long on Aliden's doorstep. You have few fighting men, and no organization."

It was another man who spoke, now, a youth roughly Nex's own age, perhaps even younger. "Oh aye, he's kept coming round claiming to be the true King of Alterac, demanding our allegiance. But we sends him packing whenever his mongrels come sniffing around. Back when Captain Greentree governed Stranhbrad we had a strong garrison here, keeping the road between Hillsbrad and Lordaeron free of Perenolde's rabble. Sure, the Syndicate came sniffing around every now and again, talking big about Perenolde's divine rights to rule and whatnot, but they never gathered up the balls to attack until now."

Nex glanced around the common room at the score or more ragged, weary men. "I assume Lordaeron called the garrison to war, leaving you at the mercy of this Syndicate."

Gamry snorted. "Ain't it exactly what they did, the bastards. Took half our men of fighting age with 'em when they left, too. Didn't even call it recruiting, they was "enlisted". Aliden started hitting us then, mostly the outlying farms and settlements. Then we finds out the garrisons farther north're gone, an' the Scourge is coming down on us too every once in a while. Got so bad most folks left, running south from the Scourge and the Syndicate both."

"But you stayed."

"We stayed fer Captain Greentree. He was old even when he got assigned to us, not done by any means but wounded and tired. Him 'n his wife been much loved around here all the whiles they've stayed. Stayed when everyone else was leaving, too, though he sent his wife and young son south when word of one defeat after another started reaching us. But then a week or so ago Aliden's goons called Greentree out to a parlay. Claimed they'd come to give us a choice between going south and leaving Strahnbrand to them, or finally coming under the control of the Syndicate. Greentree said "no thank you" to both options and they cut him down before our very eyes."

Nex was shocked in spite of himself. "In parlay?" He had little use for honor, but for most humans such an act was the worst sort of villainy.

"Aye, in godsdamn parlay, the cowardly scum. They been redoubling their attacks since, hitting anyone trying to come 'n go, sneaking in during the night and slittin' throats, any cowardly act you can imagine."

"Aye," the youth said. He stepped forward. "That's why we's asking you iff'n you's a hero. You killed them ogres easy enough, brutes as they were. Mayhaps you can go talk to them Syndicates in their camp and get them to leave us be."

Nex shook his head firmly. "I didn't come here to join some dispute. I'm here recruiting for a real fight, one that threatens all of humanity. A chance to end the Scourge right now, with none of the petty squabbling of lords and leaders."

"A real fight, eh?" Gamry grumbled, looking indignant. "Real enough for us, Son of Lothar. Just the sort of fight you noble bunch should be joining." Nex said nothing, and after a moment the old man's eyes went shrewd. "Of course, we couldn't spare anyone if'n we had the Syndicate worrying us."

Ah. Nothing for nothing. "If I deal with these thugs troubling you, clear the area of Syndicate and send a clear message to this Perenolde that Strahnbrad is to be left alone, you'll join me?"

"What we can spare. None o' our fighting men, course. We need thems even if you did manage what you claim. But if'n you can do all that we'll give you good strong lads and lasses. Untrained, aye, but that's what you recruiters want, innit? Raw recruits you can train yourselves?"

Nex hesitated. They likely wouldn't spare many, and no one with any potential. And women. Ten years ago women wouldn't even have been allowed in an army, but these days trouble was so ubiquitous and so many men had died in wars that only the women were left to take up arms. But women, girls, or strong lads, even a dozen would be more than he had now, and he didn't relish the thought of rejoining Marbrand and the others empty-handed. "Done. I'll bring peace to Strahnbrad, and to thank me you'll send along any brave adventurous souls who wish to join the Sons of Lothar and fight for humanity."

"Done." Gamry said, holding out a scrawny hand. Nex shook it reluctantly.

Ten minutes later he was out Strahnbrad's western gate, making for the tumbledown road that led to the ruins of Alterac city. A place that wouldn't have stayed ruins were it not for the Syndicate, according to Gamry. They kept a strong force there, strong enough that even when Greentree had a garrison he hadn't been able to roust them; either he came with too few and was ambushed among the decrepit houses, or he came with a huge force and the Syndicate slipped away to their hidden camps in the valley to the northeast.

Montfere followed him out, and Nex led him out of sight before he stopped. "Wait here," he said. The boy made no reply, and when Nex started out again Montfere was again dogging his heels. At least he'd left the Sons of Lothar banner behind.

Rather than repeating his command Nex searched with his second sight among the various trees. Most were softwoods, high mountain spruce, fir, and aspen. His best bet was probably scrub oak, although it was a terrible choice; no wonder Alterac didn't boast any considerable magical prowess in spite of their proximity to Dalaran, their local access to reagents and materials was atrocious.

Finally he found a fairly straight length of scrub oak along the trunk and hacked it free with his belt knife. "What are you doing?" the boy asked.

Nex ignored him as he shaved the bark off with swift, smooth strokes, carved out the impurities, then gave the stick a tapered edge. Montfere fidgeted from foot to foot as he watched. Once Nex was finished he frowned at the finished product, then ran his hand down it, channeling fire at a carefully controlled temperature. Where his hand passed the fire hardened the wood, leaving it very bendy but almost impossible to break and difficult to chop through. Scrub oak was stubborn like that while it was still green.

"I'm going to keep following no matter what you do," Montfere said defiantly.

He thought Nex was cutting a switch. Probably expected to receive a thrashing for following when Nex told him to stay behind, for going into a dangerous situation. Nex found the notion amusing. What was their expedition to assault Tempest Keep, if not dangerous? What was flying out to combat demons and rescue humans? How about traveling through the Plaguelands evading undead in preparation for a suicidal trip to Northrend?

No, Nex had no intention of keeping the boy from danger. But he didn't expect him to walk into it empty-handed.

When he was satisfied the wood was as prepared as it was going to be he dug out a gold coin and melted it in his palm, dipping the tip of the dagger in and carefully gilding the stick, tracing it with the familiar demonic runes. His power reserves gradually drained out of him as he worked on his project; it would need to be recharged, but not as often as some he'd seen. He made good work.

When he was finished the thing was almost completely transformed from its previous state, glowing satiny wood with runes traced across it.

"What is that?" Montfere asked, staring.

Nex handed it to him. "A wand. With concentration and a bit of your own latent power you can channel bursts of shadow energy through it. Not particularly potent, but enough to deaden a man's nerves, possibly cause permanent numbness or paralysis of the affected area."

"Wow!" Montfere gave it a few exploratory swings. "What happens if I hit their face?"

"Temporary blindness, immobility of the tongue and jaw, possibly unconsciousness or a silencing of spellcasting. I wouldn't insult you by asking you to stay out of this battle, but I want you on the periphery, using the wand. Try to remain unnoticed."

Nex turned to walk away, but Montfere didn't move to follow. He paused, glancing over his shoulder to find the boy still focusing on the wand with intense concentration. After a moment he pointed it at a nearby rock. A dark fog suffused the runes at the base of the wand, pulsing up to the tip, where it broke free and fluttered towards the rock, dissipating before it hit. Nex was fairly impressed; it was decent for a first attempt, and better than he'd managed.

The boy looked up with disappointment. Nex answered sternly. "Wands rely as much on the caster's focus and concentration as on the power of the wand itself. You'll improve."

That seemed to clear up most of Montfere's worries. Still he didn't move to follow. "If you can make wands why don't I ever see you using them?"

Nex bared his teeth. "I never deeply explored the wand lore aspect of enchanting. For someone of my power the ones I can manage to make are mere toys."

Montfere looked disappointed again. "This is a toy?"

"Not to you. When you can use that to its full potential you're free to complain some more. I expect that'll be in a month or so, if you try hard." Nex started forward, and this time Montfere hurried to his side, using the time as they walked to launch burst after burst in practice. Nex detected a trace of icy power laced among the shadows, and nodded in satisfaction; the wand would help the boy draw out his own powers, just as Nex's first had done for him.

"Are there good wands out there?"

"It's a favored weapon among many casters of varied schools of magic. A means of storing and releasing power swiftly without draining your own reserves overmuch. You can find wands dealing any school of magic damage you can imagine, and some even manage to inflict physical damage through concussive force."

Montfere nodded. "I heard Prince Kael'thas has a wand. A really powerful wand that's thousands of years old."

Nex felt a surge of irritation. That wand had been his, once, and would be still if Stormrage hadn't stolen it. The one wand he'd ever found that he might've been interested in using. "The Shard of Asteros," he said, forcing mildness into his tone. "An ancient relic of the night elf Highborne when the world was still young and the Well of Eternity existed unaltered. Perhaps one day you'll be powerful enough to wield such an artifact."

The boy nodded as if that day was just around the corner and returned to his practice with the wand.

. . . . .

It was almost morning by the time they reached Alterac city.

From the way the villagers talked Nex had been expecting it to be just up the road a ways, but it took almost nine hours to reach the outskirts. Longer than it might otherwise have since Nex refused to follow the roads, and in the dark Montfere was so slow that eventually Nex had to hold his hand and guide him. Even so they couldn't set the pace he would've preferred.

They were far enough off the road that Nex detected no Syndicate highwaymen until they were nearly to the city, and then only one lonely patroller just beneath the walls. Nex took him down with a torpedo before the man was even aware of him, letting Montfere run off and retrieve the weapon since the boy volunteered.

They approached the city from the east, across steep hills, rather than along the road, which Nex had little doubt was guarded. He was hoping the Syndicates were holed up in one of the ruined buildings, which would make it incredibly easy to just seal off all points of escape and burn the thing to the ground with them inside, if necessary. Instead the recent signs of human passage showed them camping in the hollow of Alterac's northern wall, protected from the near-constant wind.

Nex paused just out of sight of them, motioning Montfere to stay back. Now, with the threat right in front of them, the boy didn't seem quite so eager to jump into the fray. There were close to a score of men down there, decently armed and armored and looking frighteningly savage. There was a faint whiff of something off that camp that Nex didn't like, a hint of something familiar. His second sight helped little there, since even though he could see it clearly he hadn't had his second sight before and couldn't recognize it.

It was certainly demonic, however.

After a moment of thought he dropped his hand to the hilt of NexTaeja, ignoring the pain burning up his army. _Ready to unleash destruction?_

The sword's mad voice pounded in his skull, not trying to hide its scorn. _'You fool! You're not worthy to wield me! If you attempt to draw me my power will obliterate you!'_

_It's not your power I desire, only your cutting edge._

_'You won't have it! I won't hold back my Light for such as you!' _Nex smiled, and the demon sensed his amusement. _'What is this?' _it demanded.

_Your desire is to destroy all creation, but you won't deign to begin with a few mortals. Very well. I'll turn to less useful but more willing tools._

_'This furthers my goal nothing, fool! Do not speak as if to a rebellious child, I've brooded through endless aeons! I will not be fooled by such petty tricks!'_

_Very well. I'm going to release you now. I have no time to waste arguing with lazy swords._

NextaeJa's infuriated response was cut off as Nex released the hilt.

"Cover my back," he told Montfere over his shoulder as he strode down the hill, opening the dimensional pocket portal and withdrawing two torpedoes, which he shoved into his belt. He made no attempt to hide his presence, and to the credit of these Syndicate thugs they seemed to spot him immediately, wary even within their camp. In moments they were all on their feet, hands to weapons as he approached.

"Who're you?" the best armed and armored called. Some sort of bandit chieftain, all swagger and little true threat. "I don't recognize you. You come from Lord Perenolde?"

Nex didn't pause in his approach. "I come on behalf of the Sons of Lothar, and at the behest of the people of Strahnbrad."

Immediately weapons were drawn. Farther back a woman in robes began drawing some sort of shadow power. An odd combination of the arcane and demonic corruption that he'd not seen before; shadow priests, yes, but never a shadow mage. Still she didn't seem much of a threat.

Obviously she felt differently about him. "Watch yourselves," she called to the others. "He's no warrior, but a spellcaster who hides his abilities."

Nex finally stopped. "I came to talk."

"We did all our talking with old Greentree," the bandit said with a sneer.

"I'm here to hire you. I'm recruiting and I need experienced soldiers."

"We serve our Lord Perenolde," the woman caster called.

Nex kept his eyes on the bandit chieftain. "You work for gold, not any one man. I can offer you far more than Perenolde."

The chieftain laughed. "What do you take us for, sellswords? We're lawful armsmen of our good Lord Perenolde."

"As I understand it succession was never decided. Your Aliden Perenolde is a traitor and war criminal, his servants thugs and highwaymen. Serve me and find both wealth and honor, a better deal than your Syndicate lord could ever offer."

The few smiles among the bandits vanished. "Lord Perenolde is the rightful ruler of Alterac," the leader said dangerously. "The people of Strahnbrad are in open revolt. His Lordship sent us to serve an eviction notice to the rebels, bidding them leave his lands or be forcibly removed. They sent away our emissaries, so now we do it the hard way."

Nex drew a coin from his pouch and flipped it into the air, gold gleaming in the morning light. "You're passing up a lot more than this."

One of the bandits farther back, wearing pitted but well-scoured and oiled chain, called out. "Whatever you can offer, we'll take." It was not an acceptance but a threat, as evidenced by the way the men fanned out toward him. The shadow mage began audibly casting.

"I'm here for recruits. I'd prefer you, but if you refuse Strahnbrad offers their dregs if I complete a simple task."

"What task?" the bandit leader asked, even as he edged forward, tensing to charge.

Nex calmly drew the torpedoes from his belt, throwing up a shield just in time to block the shadowflame bolt the woman caster flung at him. "Killing all of you."

The circle around him collapsed, the warriors closing the distance with surprising speed; for all their apparent ease, they'd been tensed for this. Nex had watched the way their muscles responded to their intentions, tensing with every thought or change of plan, and almost felt like he could read their minds.

He ducked under the two-handed chop of the bandit leader's greatsword, slamming his torpedo into its back edge to knock it out of the man's hands. To his credit the armored figure kept hold of his weapon, but he went down when Nex slammed the other torpedo through the joint covering his armpit with a crunch of mail and leather giving way.

It wasn't a killing blow since the man jerked away at the last moment, but Nex was already moving past him, hurling a torpedo into the face of an assailant farther back as he caught the downswing of a woodaxe on his other torpedo and turned it aside. His hand flashed into his cloak, withdrawing another of the weapons in time to spin and drive it through the side of the axeman's neck. Then he was dropping into a crouch, kicking out with one foot to trip up a man with a huge star mace in one hand and a little roundshield in the other. As the man fell Nex dove over him, slamming his lefthand torpedo through the boiled leather covering his back and into his left lung.

Then he was over, tucking into a roll as another shadowflame bolt hit his shield, causing it to wink out with a hiss. The remainder of the spell's force hit his dusky gray armor and dissipated across it, making Nex's right side tingle for a brief moment.

He was aware of a man behind him closing to stab him in the neck above the collar of his breastplate while he was distracted by the two men in front of him and one off to the side, but that man slowed as a compact cloud of shadow energy fizzled past him. He turned with a curse, caught sight of Montfere, and motioned to a few of his friends to join him in rushing the boy. They were only too eager to leave off attacking a dangerous enemy to go after a child.

Nex threw back his head and screamed, unleashing the spell he'd prepared, and the cluster of people around him froze, suddenly too terrified to move. The shadow mage shrugged off the incapacitating spell and launched another shadowflame bolt his way, and Nex dove aside, casting a silencing spell on the woman as he came back to his feet in time to drive both torpedoes into the neck of a stupefied highwaymen from either side. He had to hurry, since his howl of terror spell wouldn't last too long on hardened veterans like these. Nor would his silencing spell; the shadow mage was already trying to use her fingers to fill in the gaps in the spell her tongue would have worked, showing she was no novice.

Nex took a breath and let his second sight expand to take in all of his surroundings, mentally steeling himself from the assault of information. Then, struggling to hold such a complex picture in his mind, he flung out the flap of his cloak holding his dimensional pocket portal, held it stiff with a spell, and began hurling torpedoes.

His aim was good, and his second sight was near flawless. It was syncing up the two that caused him problems at first. If he tried to focus narrowly enough to be confident he'd hit what he was throwing at the big picture wavered, and if he tried to hold the big picture it was like trying to watch himself throw from ten feet away from his body at a low sideways angle, guessing as best he could where his arm was loosing the weapon.

Still within five seconds he'd thrown eight torpedoes and hit seven targets, those farther away. Those closer to him came free of his howl of terror in time for him to plant a torpedo in one's eye and hurl another torpedo into another one's face at point-blank range, crushing the front of his skull in a spray of blood. He yanked the torpedo he still held free, kicking aside the corpse before it could fall on him, then hurled it at the man who'd turned to run away.

Within three more seconds every bandit was on the ground, most dead.

Nex directed his attention to Montfere in time to witness the boy coolly slitting the throat of a paralyzed highwayman. A dozen feet away another highwayman lay dead with a knife wound to his eye, and shadow energy danced around both of them, testament that the boy's use with the wand had improved after that first laughable attack Nex had witnessed earlier.

He found himself slightly unnerved by the boy's action even so. Granted, he'd slit his own share of throats in his life, and even done so when he was not too much older than Montfere. And he'd seen plenty of other people callously end the lives of defeated enemies. Montfere had suffered plenty in his life, even death itself, enough that he might not shudder at killing a man who'd tried to kill him. There was little innocence in that boy, adorable as his cherubic features may be.

After a moment Nex realized what had so disturbed him. Montfere's hands had been washed with blood when he'd cut the Syndicate thug's throat, almost up to the elbows and staining the cloth of his shirt. Even hardened soldiers avoided getting themselves bloody if they could manage it, and certainly didn't go around bathing in the stuff, but as Montfere stood and looked down at his hands he showed not the slightest sign of distaste. In fact there was an odd expression on his face, curiously intent and fascinated.

Almost like . . . hunger.

He heard chanting not far away, indicating the shadow mage had shaken free of his silencing effects, and Nex turned his attention back to the one remaining enemy.

The woman was pale, surprised by the carnage he'd unleashed in so short a time with a bare minimum of spells. Yet for some reason she didn't look worried.

Nex let go of the torpedo he'd been drawing out of the pocket portal and turned to face her directly. "I need a message sent to your Aliden Perenolde. As a skilled caster he'll be more likely to listen to you than to one of these filth."

Her response was to unleash another shadowflame bolt. Nex threw a shield up around himself and started walking toward her ignoring the spell hissing into nonexistence less than two inches from his face. She paled further, but started to cast once more. Nex held out his hand and began carefully, oh so carefully constructing the spell matrix for a chaos bolt in his palm. "Your spells have no effect on me," he said coolly as the chaotic energy formed a maelstrom against his skin, rotating in every direction in a tightly contained ball of power. "Care to see if the reverse is true?"

The woman's chanting died away as she stared at the chaos bolt forming, and for the first time he saw uncertainty flicker across her features. Then she smiled. "You think the end is certain?" she hissed. Her eyes fluttered closed above an expression of almost ecstasy, and almost immediately her skin began to burn, her matted black hair puffing away in ash.

Nex stared, shocked. A demonic transformation? Even he hadn't mastered such a thing, and this woman's power was laughable compared to his own.

But no, looking closer it was easy to see that it wasn't a demonic transformation at all. She was burning away her own body, her own life essence, so that the remaining skeleton would have a bizarre parody of lichdom, self-aware but with almost no magical ability and barely greater strength than any normal undead.

And he recognized the power. It was the same as that wielded by the Death Knights of the old orcish Horde. Those who sold everything, even their own souls, in the reckless pursuit of destruction. And like that power it came from the same source.

The transformation finished, leaving a skeletal form wielding a simple dagger from the woman's belt. The shadow mage's laughter came, spectral and having nothing to do with that fleshless jaw and larynx. "I give you pause, that's good. You cannot comprehend the power you've set yourself against!"

"Can't I?" Nex replied softly. "You're in league with Argus."

"Then you _do_ understand! Power like nothing you can imagine, fool. Now you pay for siding against Lord Perenolde!"

Nex shook his head. "It's you who don't understand, woman. Any contract you might make with a demon will have higher costs than you anticipate. But to bargain with the overlords of Argus? The eredar give nothing, ever. You would have found that out to your everlasting horror if I hadn't killed you first."

She screamed, a wail so high-pitched his ears rang, and skittered forward with the speed of a spider, dagger flashing.

The chaos bolt engulfed her. Against a normal spell she may have been resistant in that undead form, but the maelstrom of energy ripped through her breastbone, sending fragments of ribs whipping in all directions, and rooted itself where her heart should be. Then it detonated, sending shards of bone spraying out like a macabre goblin's grenade. The flecks pattered against his shield as he stood watching them fall.

Then he turned and strode over to the hole in the wall, passing through it to a thin shelf between wall and the cliff overlooking Lordamere Lake. Huddled on a ledge near the top of that cliff was the one remaining highwayman. Nex knelt and caught the man by the collar, and as he screamed heaved him up and onto his back on the ledge. "Shut up," he said firmly. The man went silent, staring at him with eyes so wide the whites were visible all around. "What's your name?"

"K-Kandry," the man stuttered, the word so garbled in his terror that Nex almost couldn't understand it.

"Well, Kandry. I'm going to cut the heads off your companions and put them in a sack. You're going to take that sack to Aliden Perenolde and tell him that one man slew all your companions, including your Argus shadow mage. Inform him that if he sends anyone else against Strahnbrad they'll suffer the same fate."

The highwayman flinched. "He'll kill me!"

"It'll seem like a mercy compared to what I'll do to you if the message isn't delivered." Nex held out his hand, and what remained of the shadow mage's skull whipped over the wall and into his hand. He pressed it into Kandry's grip. "Be sure he gets this one especially."

. . . . .

Montfere was asleep by the time Nex sent Kandry on his way with the sack of skulls. For a moment he stood over the boy, still spattered in blood, and felt a surge of annoyance.

This is exactly why he preferred to do things alone. He didn't want to wait around while a boy slept when he had things to do. But it was obvious Montfere was at the limits of his endurance, and waking him and insisting he walk for another eight or so hours would be detrimental to his health.

So, muttering to himself, Nex slung the boy up over one shoulder, as comfortably for the boy as he could manage. Montfere stirred, and Nex cuffed him lightly. "Sleep if you can," he said.

Then he turned and sprinted along the street through Alterac city that led to the road. He meant to follow the road back this time, catch any Syndicate highwaymen who might not've been at camp and finish them off.

As he ran he dropped his free hand down to NexTaeja's fused-diamond hilt. _You missed the fun._

_'I take no joy in destruction, necessary though it may be. Not even satisfaction. Only the grief of a distasteful task done at last.'_

_You sound almost sane, sword._

_'I'm perfectly sane. I am well aware of the conflict of being created to bring peace and order, and of the inherent impossibility of such a task in the universe as it is now. It grieves me to destroy the beautiful and pure along with the ugly and corrupt, but such is unavoidable if I am to recreate existence in true perfection.'_

_Would you even be able to do such a thing?_

_'Of course. I am, of myself, perfect in conception, form, and essence. I could not succeed in my ultimate mission were it not so.'_

_You're quite the chatterbox, you know._

_'I'm not sure I understand what you mean.'_

_I once took a sentient whip off a dreadlord. Unlike you, it wasn't talkative._

_'Such things seldom are. Did this weapon have a name?'_

_Zzagath nok'zsarbesh gajsi-mal._

_'The Fire that Burns Without Cleansing. A most appropriate name, I imagine.'_

_You possess an imagination, sword?_ Nex was amused.

_'A figure of speech.'_

_I see. What say you about the mage I encountered earlier? The one aligned with the powers of Argus._

_'More in need of destroying than most. What of it? All things need to be ended, and it is no more noble to destroy the corrupt than the pure.'_

_And yet you refuse to let me wield you._

_'My refusal has nothing to do with it. You could not safely wield me at the moment. I would suggest you attempt using my power while I remain contained within this imprisoning sheath. It's a start, at least.'_

_Maybe next time. _Nex took his hand away.

It was early afternoon by the time the walls of Strahnbrad came into sight. Nex wasn't surprised to see a delegation of citizens swiftly gathering as soon as they became aware of his approach. He set Montfere down and shook him awake roughly; the boy hadn't slept well in spite of his efforts, and he looked tired and grumpy now. Still, Nex resolved to start carrying him around more often, since it was much better than waiting around eight hours while the boy slept.

Gamry, Vac, and Joric stepped away from the others at his approach. "The Syndicate camp in Alterac city is eliminated, and I sent the only survivor back with eighteen heads to give Perenolde the warning that Strahnbrad is off-limits."

A spontaneous cheer was raised by the delegation, but Gamry and Vac didn't so much as smile. "You should've come back with the heads yourself. How do we know you're telling the truth?"

Nex's mouth twisted. "I'm not a fool, old man." He pulled his pouch free and tossed it at the group. Joric caught it clumsily. "Seventeen ears. In case _you_ are fools, they are all left ears, so don't try accusing me of bringing you ears from nine dead men." Vac opened his mouth but Nex spoke right over him. "And if you're about to ask why seventeen, the eighteenth's flesh was burned away entirely. There is a fingerbone there for that one, although I suggest you get rid of it quickly; it is the cursed bone of a lich-like creature."

Joric grimaced as he reached into the pouch and began pushing the macabre trophies around. "Seems like he's telling the truth."

"Fair enough." Gamry bowed low, awkward with his broken leg splinted by Nex's own hands. "The town of Strahnbrad is greatly in your debt, Son of Lothar."

"I'm glad to hear it. I'll take my recruits now."

The three men looked at each other uneasily. "Ah, I'm afraid that's not possible, sir," Vac said. When Nex narrowed his eyes he continued hastily. "That is, we spoke to everyone in town and all agreed they'd just as soon not join an army. We would certainly give you any who were willing to go, and none are."

Nex let the silence drag until everyone in the delegation was shifting uncomfortably before he spoke. "That does not seem to be what we agreed upon. I recall you promising any of your young lads and lasses you could spare."

"Aye, and there's the rub. We can't spare any of them."

Montfere stepped forward, looking livid. "You lying bastards! We just killed twenty men for you! We ended a threat to your town!" He raised his hands, still red with blood and the sleeves stained up to the elbow. "This is their blood!"

He saw men flinching at the sight of such a young boy with blood on his hands. "We never meant to deceive you," Joric mumbled, looking ashamed. He should, sending a boy out to do his killing.

"And what if we decide to kill you like we killed your enemies?" Montfere demanded, almost shaking with rage.

Gamry looked away. "But you won't, right? You're heroes. You help folks, even thems that prove unfaithful. You wouldn't slaughter a bunch of innocents just for not giving you what we can't spare."

"You're about as innocent as—"

Nex reached out and gripped the boy's shoulder, silencing him. "You are correct, Gamry, we'll not raise our hands against you. If you could bring out the Sons of Lothar banner, and any provisions you could spare for the boy, we'll be on our way."

The delegation bowed and fled, leaving Nex still holding Montfere's shoulder while the boy shook with rage beneath his hand. As soon as they were gone Montfere whirled on him. "I didn't think you'd just bend over like that for them," he said fiercely. "Why did we waste our time if you're just going to walk away when they betray us?"

"It's time you realize that it's the purpose that matters, boy, not our pride. We won't waste time on pointless vengeance _because_ we've already wasted so much on a failed effort."

The boy looked away, gripping the wand tucked into his belt with one hand and his knife with the other. The pose became extra threatening because of the blood covering hands and weapons. "I say you burn this place to the ground," he muttered. Nex shushed the boy as Joric and a few youths returned with the banner and a meagre pack of provisions, staring at them coldly while they gave awkward but sincere thanks. Awkward, because they were looking away in shame. They knew they'd been dishonorable, but none wanted to go.

Nex turned away, leaving Montfere to carry the pack and lean on the pole like a staff. He led the boy for roughly an hour as Montfere lagged further and further behind, then stopped. "Wait here."

The boy glared at him. "I already told you I'm not-"

"I'm not leaving you behind to keep you safe. You need sleep and I need to move fast. Keep the wand out and be ready in case of danger; there are likely still Syndicate and ogres about."

The boy suddenly looked hopeful. "What are you going to do?"

Nex smiled grimly. "I told the townspeople I won't raise my hand against them, and I don't mean to. But that doesn't prevent me from doing something else."

. . . . .

Kandry squealed when Nex appeared in front of him, and again when Nex shoved the bag of heads, which he'd flung aside as soon as Nex was out of his sight, into his arms.

Nex scowled at the man. "You seem bad at following directions," he said coldly.

The Syndicate highwayman fell to the ground, groveling. "I couldn't carry them heads! They was me friends 'n all! I mean t' give your message to His Lordship, though, just like you telled it to me. I swear I do!"

"No need." Nex turned away. "Leave the heads as you like, or take them as proof so your lord doesn't think you a craven or deserter. But you may tell Aliden Perenolde that Strahnbrad is no longer under my protection. I will not oppose any action he might take against the pathetic town."

Kandry gaped at him. "No longer . . . You just slaughtered near twenty men fer them not four hours ago! Is this some kind of trick?"

"I offered to let you join up with me as well. Your fighters would've been more valuable to me than the Strahnbrad rabble anyway. But be that as it may I wash my hands of Alterac. You can do as you like." Nex lowered his voice. "And you might tell Perenolde that Strahnbrad is lacking in soldiers and spellcasters. Even one Argus shadow mage and a handful of Syndicate goons would probably be enough to take the place."

The man gaped at him, and continued to do so as Nex turned and ran back the way he'd come to meet up with Montfere.

He'd return one day for those fools who'd allied themselves with the eredar of Argus. But for now the squabbles of fractured Alterac were none of his concern.


	7. Refugees

Chapter Six

Refugees

Blackfinger toed the ruined wagon with his boot. After an almost comically long pause there was a groan, and the rotted wood collapsed in a puff of dust and mold. Not that Marbrand thought it was funny to see a wagon that couldn't have been abandoned for more than a few months fall to pieces in front of him. The big man stepped back to keep from breathing in the spores.

"It's uncanny," Alvin muttered, straightening with a wretched, once-fine doll held limp in his hand. "We pass two, three farms a day. Villages every few days. The roads are cluttered with debris left behind by fleeing refugees. But no one. Not undead, not living. Even the animals seem to have gone into hiding. If they yet live."

No one answered, but Marbrand was sure they were all thinking what he was thinking. Nex had sent them _here_ to recruit? The trees were showing signs of rot, the grasses yellowing even though it was early spring and they should be thick and green. Instead they were turning brown, slumping and becoming mush underfoot with every step. Several of the men had developed disturbing coughs, and every breath he took stank of rot and filth. He felt like he was breathing in disease constantly.

How far across Lordaeron had they traveled so far? He'd set them on a zigzag course that would cover the most possible ground in search of potential recruits, but now he was wondering if they shouldn't just press forward with all speed out of this plagued land. It seemed like the less settled areas showed fewer signs of plague, and the farther north they traveled the closer they came to thick forests and unsettled lands. Lands that didn't look like a warlock's nightmare.

If he turned north now they could follow the coast west and reach the rendezvous point in less than a week. From there it would just be a matter of waiting for Lord Nex to arrive. Sure, they wouldn't run into anyone to recruit, but there was no guarantee keeping this westward course or turning farther south would show any better results.

It was tempting. By the Light, it was tempting. But Nex hadn't sent them along this route simply to take the easiest course and lounge about. By all he'd told Marbrand it was clear Lord Illidan's forces were marching into a hopeless war, outnumbered against an enemy who increased in number as they began to fall. Every man they could bring to the cause increased the chances for success, and Marbrand had no intention of resigning himself to death.

Life was too sweet. Even in the hell Lordaeron had become, home was too sweet.

It had been eleven days since parting ways with the main army, and with Lord Nex. In all that time the land had remained this diseased, if not worse, and if there were any inhabitants eking out a living they hadn't revealed themselves to the Sons of Lothar.

Marbrand was starting to entertain disturbing fears that the entire world had become this dying wasteland, that they were too late even to make a suicidal attack upon this Frozen Throne Nex spoke of, when a few hours later Alvin hurried up to tell him that he'd finally spotted people.

"Not far ahead, now, making their way south on a miserable little track bisecting the road."

Marbrand nodded. "Fortunate we arrived at the same time they did, then."

The scout shook his head grimly. "Not so fortunate. It's a large group, and they're moving slow. They seem reluctant to put the road behind them. I spoke to them a little, gave them warning of our approach and heard something of their story."

The man's tone warned him. "How bad is it?"

"We can be there in as much time as it would take for me to begin to describe it, even if I had the heart." Alvin gestured down the road to a low rise. "They can be seen from there."

Marbrand nodded and started forward, and silence reigned for the few minutes it took to crest the rise. He slowed to a stop, staring at the sight before him with a sick feeling in his gut.

"By the Light," Blackfinger breathed, coming up beside him. "There must be hundreds of them."

Hundreds, yes. A ragged line representing all the misery of humanity. Old men and women shuffling along with listless children clutching their clothes, few with the strength to carry even the most weary of the young ones. Those few with any strength were tugging or pushing at a handful of carts and wagons loaded with those too sick and hungry to even move at the slow shuffle the refugees were moving at. There was no livestock, no beasts to pull the wagons, so that as they creaked along they moved so slowly that those on foot shuffling around them were slowly passing them by.

Though everyone was pale and gaunt, a few coughing weakly, the scene was disturbingly quiet; these people were too desolate to even bemoan their fates.

Alvin suddenly tensed. "Something's not right here, do you see?"

Marbrand glanced over. "Hmm?"

"Look at who the refugees are. The elderly, children. A scattering of younger or older men and women. No one in their prime."

"What of it?" Blackfinger asked. "Those were probably drafted into the army."

The scout shook his head. "No. They told me they haven't had any contact with the Alliance army since before the murder of Terenas Menethil. And this lot weren't too kindly disposed towards the army anyway, after they were abandoned to their fate near the beginning of the war. They've given few recruits. These are all refugees from the north, fleeing the spread of this plague Nex spoke of."

Marbrand finally saw it. "Plague usually strikes the old and young first, leaving those most healthy to survive."

Alvin nodded. "Exactly! But here we have the weak and the sickly. Why didn't I see it before? There must be some other answer."

"There is any easy answer."

All three of them jerked around in stunned surprise as a wan young man slipped out of the dying trees to their right. "Who are you?" Marbrand demanded, gripping his sword for all that the gaunt figure looked about as menacing as a duckling.

The youth smiled feebly, gesturing at the line of refugees. "Outrunner. Most of us don't have strength for more than pushing forward day by day, but that just makes it all the more important that those who can to keep watch. These are perilous lands."

Marbrand extended his hand. "Sir Daran Marbrand. Are you one of the leaders of this group?"

"Such as we have. Our flight was disorganized, and most of the strongest and most influential townspeople died first to the plague." The youth shook his hand, grip weak. "I'm Kyle Lawhae."

"Is that the easy answer, then?" Alvin asked. "That this plague operates opposite to any other we've seen, striking the strong and sparing the weak?"

The youth looked at him with scorn. "The Plague of Undeath spares no one. The Cult of the Damned need only spread their cauldrons, sneak in their tainted food, as they did in our village before we fled. But it does seem to show a preference for inflicting the strong before the weak. Which is only to be expected, isn't it?"

Blackfinger and Alvin stared at the youth with confusion, but Marbrand felt a prickling horror down his spine. "It's true, then. Nex claimed the plague turned people into undead, but I assumed he meant it killed them, and then all the dead were raised by some necromantic ritual."

Kyle laughed harshly. "That would be too easy for us, too much work for the damned Cultists. No, the leaders of the Scourge have to take a special effort to raise those already dead, but anyone afflicted by the plague become undead. Some do so even before they die." He shuddered. "And you do not wish to hear their screams."

"Then the plague targets the strong first because the Scourge wishes to raise soldiers, not just kill."

The young man stepped away, obviously putting himself between them and the refugees. "Your scout introduced himself to us, but he didn't have much to say. You're recruiters? Come to take the few of us strong enough to care for the others and leave the rest behind?"

Blackfinger stared at him, aghast. "Good gods, boy, who would do such a thing?"

This time the youth's harsh laugh ended in a weak cough. "Garithos, for one. His "recruiters" came through Tarn's Well earlier this year. Many of those you see down there are children torn from their parent's arms, or revered old ones whose children were torn from theirs to become soldiers. They managed to get warning to us in time for us to flee into the woods." His mouth twisted. "Not that it did us much good."

"Parents . . . you mean he took women away to be soldiers as well?" Alvin looked like he could scarce believe it.

"Not enough men to feed the war effort. Women bleed and die just as well when you put a sword in their hand."

"No," Marbrand said firmly. "We're not animals. Our recruiting efforts will have to wait while we escort you to safety."

Blackfinger frowned. "Lord Nex is-"

"I don't care." Marbrand stepped forward and rested a gauntleted hand on the boy's shoulder, feeling how frail Kyle's strength truly was; an outrunner who couldn't run, like as not. "If you'll have us, lad, we'll fight to defend you and see you to safety. We've a bit of food to spare as well."

Kyle looked at him in open suspicion. "And where would you take us? The refugee camps aren't much better than waiting behind for the Scourge, from all I hear. The army puts them to work but feeds them precious little, and it's not just the women whoring themselves out for food."

Marbrand's eyes darted to the little ones struggling along beside the elders, those that weren't slumped listlessly in the few carts. If he'd felt horror before, now he found himself swallowing rapidly to keep from sicking up.

Nex had warned him of the world they would be returning to. He'd warned them, but by the Light! This Garithos had more to answer for than he'd thought. No, not just him but all the complacent kings and rulers who'd sat idly by while the Scourge took root, then allowed themselves to become animals in its wake. And the traitor Arthas Menethil. And this Cult of the Damned who turned against their own fellowmen.

And Ner'zhul, once an Elder Shaman of the orcs and now a monster to make the Burning Legion seem honorable by comparison.

"We'll find somewhere," he said through gritted teeth. "We'll help you as we can, because no one else is. But we have only so much aid to give; we're sworn to meet our leader to the west, sworn to go to Northrend and destroy the threat of the Scourge once and for all."

For the first time life seemed to flicker in Kyle's eyes. "You're taking the fight to the Scourge? Half a hundred old men?"

Alvin laughed mirthlessly. "We're just the irregulars, boy. Thousands of elves and naga make for Northrend even as we speak. We may not have victory, but by the gods we'll make an effort of it."

Kyle stared at the scout, almost uncomprehendingly it seemed, then abruptly turned. "I'll let the elders know you're coming. They'll know how to organize your efforts best."

Marbrand watched the boy trot down the hill at a speed barely better than a walk. No gratitude in his face or voice, but then sometimes a person's suffering and hopelessness reached a point where they couldn't even recognize aid enough to be grateful for it. Not for a long time after the healing had begun.

He turned to Blackfinger. "Hunters, trappers, and gatherers. Anyone who can scrounge food off the wild, get them out searching. The rest we'll organize to give assistance to the weakest, for starters pulling those carts. Have anyone who's not strong enough to be of great benefit or woodcrafty enough to be out gathering provisions set in picket formation against possible avenues of attack. Early warning only."

Alvin ran off, but Blackfinger hesitated a moment. "You know I've nothing but pity for these poor people, but our task was to find recruits, not burden ourselves with a bunch of useless mouths. We could spend months combing these plagued lands for survivors and helping them to safety, but the threat will remain."

Marbrand shook his head, feeling wearier than he'd ever thought he could feel. "I know. I know, old friend. We'll aid them as we can, then give them a choice of pressing forward with us in hopes of finding a safer place somewhere ahead, perhaps even the Alliance army, or going off on their own. At least their situation will be a little better."

"And what about our situation? We have our own provisions to gather if we want to make the voyage to Northrend. We'll need our own strength to fight, strength we can't afford to waste carrying the old and sickly halfway across Lordaeron, feeding them our food."

"Would I had your pragmatism," Marbrand whispered. Blackfinger reacted as if he'd struck him. The big man turned and strode back down the line, barking orders. Marbrand watched him for a moment, then turned and made his way down to the ragged line of refugees. A knot of older men and women had already begun to gather to meet him.

A man in his middle years, less gaunt than the others, met him with a bow. "Jariss Halman." The old man's eyes were averted, but not in any display of humility. He was staring closely at Marbrand's tabard, the blue and silver. "I know that sigil, sir."

"That is no surprise."

"Surely not," Jariss was shaking slightly, whether from weakness or emotion Marbrand couldn't tell. "My brother never came home from the War, but they sent us a little silver pin carved in the shape of a lion with a border of lapis lazuli when the Dark Portal fell. They told us he wouldn't be coming home."

"What was his name?"

The elderly man finally met his eyes. "Canars."

Marbrand knew no one by that name. It was true many had come through the Dark Portal, and too many had perished. More than likely the brother this man had grieved for all these years was in truth dead. "I'm sorry for your loss. Many good men died on that Expedition."

"Too many. Were you one of the few who made it through the portal before it fell?" From the man's tone Marbrand had a feeling this wasn't simply a casual question. It was, he feared, the prelude to him being accused of being a fraud, unfit to fly the silver lion.

"No, sir. I've been on Outland all these twelve years. I only recently returned, with the aid of a renegade night elf."

He was afraid the man was going to scoff at this, denounce him as a liar and worse, but the man abruptly dropped the issue. "Kyle says you offer your help."

Ah. So beggars couldn't afford outrage, even in memory of a loved one. "Yes. The Sons of Lothar will aid you as we can, if you'll change your course west rather than south. Our path likely takes us a direction you cannot follow, but until we must part we offer our protection."

"Fair enough." And just that quickly Marbrand's men were being directed to those who were weakest, set to pulling wagons and carts that were in such poor repair that it was a miracle they'd come so far. Most they repaired as they could, although one they were forced to leave behind, Marbrand's men picking up the elderly and children riding inside and carrying them on, or the few pitiful possessions worth taking.

Marbrand could tell the refugees had hoped their arrival would signal a break, perhaps even camp for the day, but he had no intention of stopping so early. He had a task to be about, even slowed as they now were. He did see to it that their remaining food was distributed, water brought from the roadside stream. It was polluted with muck and had a layer of scum atop it, so Marbrand set a few men to building a fire and straining it through cloth then boiling it in rusty pots as they continued on.

By nightfall the chaos of the two forces merging had settled somewhat. Those he had sent out for provisions trickled in as they set up camp, doing their best to provide shelter for so many. Because many of the children were orphans, or being cared for by guardians too weak to care for even themselves, Marbrand set each of his men to watch over a group of urchins. He'd thought the children would be naturally suspicious of strangers, but most were so weary and broken that they flocked around their new "uncles" like listless puppies, especially when offered food.

Marbrand wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry at seeing his men, hardened veterans who'd spent the last decade alone, trying not to panic as they tried to deal with this unexpected responsibility. A few of the children still had the strength, and more importantly the spirit, to play and cause mischief in the normal childish fashion, and soon Blackfinger and a few of the others were driven to distraction trying to rein them in.

Most, however, were slumped in their crude shelters, sleeping or laying in exhaustion. His own men were tired as well, even those who were bringing in the meat and gathered fruits dragging their feet. Marbrand was watching them prepare the evening meal when Blackfinger approached, carrying a toddler in one arm and holding the hand of a girl that couldn't have been much older than the one he carried. She was practically standing on tiptoes with her arm straight above her to grip his frostbitten little finger, he was so tall. "Fairly good haul today," the big man observed. "We should eat well tonight."

Marbrand shook his head, watching the girl plop to the ground and put a filthy thumb in her mouth. "We can't afford to. Ration whatever was brought in, and prepare as much as possible for preservation. There's no telling what the future will bring."

"The men won't be happy about it, what with already giving up what little food they had."

"They've dealt with worse." Marbrand hesitated, then pushed to his feet with a weary grunt and moved closer to his friend, lowering his voice. "Have the men talk freely with the refugees, reminisce about our glorious victories and proud history."

His friend stared at him blankly. "Glorious . . . victories? Since when-" He cut off, eyes narrowing. "Hold on, Dare, are you talking about recruiting here?"

"I'm talking about giving incentive to volunteer."

Blackfinger frowned. "These are refugees. You heard the boy, they can't spare anyone."

"They might be able to in the future, and there are a few likely lads here. We can't meet up with Lord Nex emptyhanded."

"But after all they've suffered-"

"At the hands of the Scourge. Make sure they remember that while we're talking about marching to Northrend and tearing the Lich King off his throne. There's more than one wanting revenge, I'd wager."

"Hard to march when you can barely stand." Stooping, his friend tugged the little girl up into his arms alongside the toddler. The girl, tired and grouchy, immediately began to squirm and scream her displeasure. Blackfinger gave him a helpless look as he walked away, struggling not to drop the child.

Barely stand. That didn't just apply to the refugees, either. More of his men were coughing from whatever ailed them in this cursed land than had been this morning.

An old woman, one of those who had greeted him, hobbled over to his fire. "Your men have the cough."

"Yes," Marbrand said, looking over at the nearest of his men, who was doubled over hacking weakly. "Do you know what ails them?"

The old woman shook her head grimly. "All too well, sir. Plaguedust."

"I've never heard of such a disease."

"Not a disease," the crone corrected firmly. "Mold, of a sort. Or perhaps some other fungus. From what I've heard piecemeal, carried by word of mouth from Alliance healers, no one's sure if it's a magically created substance like the blight surrounding Scourge encampments, or the plague itself, or if it's merely a naturally occurring affliction that before now was confined to deep caves, and has now emerged, feeding off the same energy that animates the undead, letting it spread unchecked. It afflicts plants as well as animals, but those who breathe in the spores suffer symptoms similar to consumption."

Marbrand shuddered. This news didn't please him. Not at all. "Is there a cure?"

The woman nodded. "Oh yes. Unlike the plague or the blight it can be cured by priests, tinctures of herbs found throughout the Eastern Kingdoms, or even the body's own natural defenses." She began rummaging in her decrepit bag. "I have a tea that should soothe your men until true healing can be managed. The least I can do."

"I'll leave you to it, then." Marbrand turned and walked away.

It was rude to leave so abruptly, but he was so troubled he didn't realize his lack of courtesy. Disease was a soldier's worst nightmare. Enemies you could fight, hunger or thirst you could alleviate, but with disease there was only the helpless feeling of knowing you'd either live or die, and nothing you did could change that. Armies of disciplined veterans that would march singing into the jaws of a dragon broke at the rumor of plague, while men who laughed at severe wounds would go pale and shun any who could spread it to them.

Fighting the undead was bad enough, but this Scourge brought diseases with them as well, it seemed. In the First and Second wars few enemies were as feared as the orcish warlocks and necrolytes, and later Gorefiend's death knights were so fearsome that they could rout an attack with one devastating cast of their horrific Death and Decay spell withering the very grass of an area. All warriors hated mages and other spellcasters, but there was a special place in their hearts for those who dealt in diseases and afflictions.

There was only one conclusion to be drawn from this. They could gather up as many soldiers as they wanted, but if they were going to march into the heart of Scourge power in the far, cold north they needed healers. Priests, clerics, paladins, servants of the Light. Marbrand didn't mean to slay any undead enemy they faced only to die of some foul plague.

It concerned him that more than he could say that the elves of Prince Kael'thas's army had given up the Light. A creature like Illidan knew nothing of healing, and who knew what the odd water-dwelling naga could or couldn't do with their magic. It was a telling weakness in their campaign, and one that made Marbrand feel strangely naked. The holy clergy of the Church of Light had taken up the cause of defending as fervently as ever they'd attending to their worship and sermons. Not content to stay back and pray, or even to hide behind the battle lines healing the injured who were brought to them, they'd marched out with their own weapons and spells to confront the enemy and bring relief to allies on the battlefield. Marbrand had never fought in an army not bolstered by such holy support.

As far as he was concerned, finding ministers of the Church of Light was his primary recruiting priority. Not only would they provide healing, and offer some defense against the diseases carried by the Scourge, but they would also give heart to men going into terrifying places.

He couldn't see how they would survive in Northrend without them.

. . . . .

Halfway through the second day of escorting the refugees they finally found signs of something besides ruin and abandonment. A battlefield, perhaps a hundred Scourge dead and left lying where they'd fallen. The Alliance dead had been gathered up, drained of blood on a stained patch of ground, then burned in a mass pyre, likely to prevent them from rising once more. In the center of the field a tattered Lordaeron banner flapped over a pile of skulls gathered from the pyre.

It was the first true indication of the war that raged between the battered Alliance army and the Scourge. Marbrand misliked the sight. Sensible as it likely was, the sight of brave soldiers burned like garbage instead of giving decent burial sickened him. The undead left where they lay was equally troubling; likely that was another sensible precaution, since the undead may carry plague, curses, parasites, or any manner of ills that handling them could spread. Still, those had been living, peaceful citizens of Lordaeron at one time. For them to be left unburied added insult to tragedy.

It was more than simply appearances, however. A heavy spirit hung over the dismal field, one that visibly bowed the backs of refugee and veteran alike as the column passed the site. He'd heard of incorporeal spirits haunting the living, bringing dread and disquiet wherever they passed, and though he'd never given much credence to such tales he was certain this field was haunted. Beyond that some undead he'd fought in his wars against the Horde, raised by the twisted necrolytes, seemed to carry that aura of fear as well, so men quailed even as they stood against them.

Yet another thing to worry about when fighting the Scourge, to add to disease and their own dead rising against them.

"Gods, this is the war we've sworn ourselves to," Blackfinger, standing silently beside him, finally said.

Marbrand turned away, unable to bear the sight any longer. "Else we see this scene repeated all over Azeroth."

The battle turned out to be little more than a skirmish, for the farther they went the more signs they saw of the Alliance army and other conflicts. It appeared, contrary to his expectations, that it was the Scourge that was fleeing, south towards Lordaeron City if the refugees knew their directions, and the Alliance army that was giving chase.

Seeing that, Marbrand was left with a choice. They could either continue west toward the rendezvous, doing their best to find recruits along the way, or they could turn south after the army. He'd expected the refugees to support the second option, but to his surprise they almost unanimously insisted on continuing westward. A little casual probing revealed that most were as frightened of putting themselves at the mercy of Garithos as they were of marching directly towards where the Scourge were known to be.

So instead Marbrand sent Alvin and a few others, decked out in the officer's finery Kael'thas had gifted them with and bearing their only Sons of Lothar banner, as a delegation to Garithos. It took a direct order for him to be certain the scout wouldn't try to assassinate the general, certainly dying in the process.

Marbrand had little hope they'd return with reinforcements. In truth he had some fears that the small party wouldn't return at all, at best snatched up by Garithos and conscripted into the Alliance army. But risks needed to be taken, considering how little success they'd seen so far.

For the few hours that remained that day he set more scouts out, especially to the south, and that night he doubled the sentries, assigning Kyle to select a few of the more alert refugees for the task.

The next morning, almost two weeks since parting ways with Nex and Ilinar, he stumbled out of his tent in his underclothes to void his bladder, only to be confronted by forty of the refugees. They were mostly the oldest of the youths, as well as some of the youngest of the elderly, drawn up in awkward ranks wielding weapons ranging from crude to absurd.

Marbrand hunched over slightly to hide his morning state, wishing he'd at least belted on a tunic to cover the scars along his left side; a good three-quarters of those arrayed in front of him were women. "What is this?" he demanded.

Kyle stepped forward. "Sir Marbrand," he said with surprising formality. "My companions and I have talked it over, and we would like to join the Sons of Lothar."

"The addition of nine men would be welcome," Marbrand said, straightening now that it was less embarrassing to do so. "As long as you're certain you understand what you're getting into."

The women among the ranks were shifting uncomfortably, and Kyle hemmed and hawed for a moment. "Ah, sir, that would be forty-three recruits." He gestured. "Those you see here. And yes, sir, we understand exactly what joining up would mean. We've spoken to your men, though they were often reluctant about it. As long as we can see our people safe, we're yours. On our honor."

So the campaign of propaganda he'd set Blackfinger to had proved successful. Too successful, if anything. Marbrand looked over the refugees again. Women, looking at him with quiet determination, no less fierce than the men. Men, women? No, girls, and it was painful enough to take boys so young into the north.

Before he could come to a decision, or even seriously consider it, he noticed Blackfinger sidling aside, obviously wanting to talk to him. "I'll need to think this over," he said. "Remain in formation. Jocal, show them the proper at attention stance." The Squire, lounging by his tent not far away, stiffened in surprise, then saluted and moved over, already snapping out orders. Marbrand made his way over to Blackfinger and allowed the big man to lead him to the edge of camp, taking the opportunity to empty his bladder.

"You can't seriously be considering this, sir," Blackfinger said.

"We're here for this. We need recruits, they're offering."

"We're supposed to be recruiting soldiers, not picking up hordes of refugees who'll be no more use than to die in the north." Blackfinger shook his head. "Older men, and over thirty women?"

"You heard them. They're willing to sign up, even for a perilous mission to Northrend. If we can put some meat on their bones and teach them to use a sword many of them will make suitable soldiers, as long as we can find a safe place for the rest."

His friend looked at him in horror. "Recruit women?" he demanded. "By the gods, Marbrand, we're supposed to be _protecting_ women, not putting them on the front lines."

"Look around you!" Marbrand shot back. "Twenty years ago only men fought because there were still men to fight! Decades of war have left Azeroth with conflicts just as fierce as the First and Second Wars, but with far fewer men to answer the call to arms. According to Lord Nex women have been fighting nearly as long as we've been gone. If we don't accept that fact we're going to rejoin him with barely any recruits, and leave a bunch of helpless women behind to die as well."

Blackfinger looked at him helplessly. "They're women," he said again. "_Women_."

"They're soldiers. I didn't make any empty promises. They know they're probably marching north to die. The fact that they're doing it with a chance to destroy the Scourge makes them willing, and who are we to refuse them the right? It's them who've suffered, not us."

"Damn you, Dare," his friend said, looking away. "I never thought you'd even consider something like this."

"Death stalks us all now, Lewis. They have the right to choose how it finds them, or if by chancing it they might save themselves and all the world with them."

"And I suppose you'll want me to train them?"

That was a good point. He refused to bring untrained soldiers to Northrend, but training required three things they didn't have at the moment: food, equipment, and spare time. "When we can. For now we keep going and hope to find what we need."

Blackfinger turned and stalked away, leaving Marbrand to return to the lined up refugees. Squire Jocal had gotten most of them into a reasonable stance, but even the men didn't look like soldiers. As for the women . . . Light burn him, they were all so _young_. It may as well be five year olds standing in ranks there, looking up at him with huge, hopeful eyes.

"The Sons of Lothar span all borders," he said, voice booming in the expectant silence. "Soldiers under our banner hail from any and all the Seven Kingdoms. Our loyalty is not to any king or cause, but to humanity itself, preserving Azeroth against any threat which faces it. We have fought on two worlds, against forces alien and demonic, and made what should have been a last stand while the portal at our backs collapsed in ruin and Draenor died around us.

"We do not shrink from our duty. We do not fight for honor or wealth or veneration. We fight to protect those who cannot protect themselves, so that while we draw breath their lives are inviolate. And should we return from the north, it will be with the threat of the Scourge eliminated forevermore."

He hadn't expected these tired, hopeless refugees to cheer, so the enthusiasm of it was all the more unexpected when they did. At last Marbrand drew his sword and planted it in the ground. "Swear with me, and at the end of your vows be Sons of Lothar. May the Light abandon you if ever you prove faithless. As Lothar stood brave in his duty, so do we stand. Let our swords be raised in preservation of peace and justice wherever they are needed, and the Light follow us wherever we go, until at last in there is no more war and we may lay them down."

With solemn fervency, stumbling over the words and speaking out of unison, the first recruits of the Sons of Lothar in over a decade swore the oath.

. . . . .

The trouble began a few days later.

Marbrand was sitting outside the scrap of canvas he'd propped up with two sticks for a tent, oiling his sword after sharpening it while watching Squire Jocal and Kyle arrange the new recruits in proper marching formation. His attention was diverted when Blackfinger pushed out of his tent clad only in his underclothes, yawning and stretching hugely before ambling between the tents to void his bladder. Marbrand would've called him out for not using the latrines if they weren't breaking camp in less than half an hour. It seemed counterintuitive to dig latrines every night when everyone was already so weary, but poor sanitation would only make everyone sicker and create the risk of true disease spreading. It was also a good way to begin setting some discipline into the recruits, who were tasked with the digging and ensuring that everyone used the latrines.

But whatever he felt about Blackfinger breaking protocol, his minor irritation was diverted when a woman ducked out of his friend's tent.

For a moment Marbrand could only stare at her, shocked. Of course he'd been expecting something like this. His men were only human, and it had been along time since they'd been around women, even starving, sickly creatures such as these. The more comely, which usually meant more healthy, had begun to have a bit of a following, men hanging around them like mopey puppies the same way the children clung to the men.

No doubt a few men had even tried to sneak into the women's beds, or entice them to come to theirs. Whether they had success or not was, frankly, none of his business, as long as it wasn't forceful and no one brought it to his attention. But for Blackfinger to openly take a woman into his tent bespoke more than simple coupling; Marbrand hadn't expected it from his second, and wasn't pleased to see it either.

She was young, pretty in a furtive, hunted way, gaunt as if she hadn't had a meal in weeks. When she caught him looking at her in disapproval she flinched, eyes widening with horror. Marbrand was used to such reactions when people saw his burned face for the first time. Sometimes for the hundredth time. The woman recovered from her shock quickly and hunched her shoulders, looking almost guilty. Then she straightened and returned his gaze defiantly until Marbrand was forced to look away, mouth twisting with wry humor. The woman hurried off to rejoin the other female recruits in preparing the morning meal, and he turned the force of his stare at his friend.

Blackfinger was turning as he finished lacing his breeches, and when he met Marbrand's eyes he scowled. "Don't say anything."

"She's young enough to be your daughter, Lewis. Hell, maybe even your granddaughter."

"Geana came to my tent willing," the big man snapped. "She was the one wanted it, anyway."

"Desperate women have little freedom in their choices, however willing they think they are."

His friend's annoyance turned to genuine anger. "Didn't I warn you don't say anything? You're talking like I'm a perverted old bastard never seen a woman who's snatched up the first who didn't say "no." It's not like that and you know it."

"Isn't it?"

"Damn it, Marbrand! These people have been staring at death as if it were inevitable, in a way us soldiers can barely understand, being able to fight back as we are. When a man offers a "desperate woman" protection, stability, and kindness, what more could she ask for?"

"And what will you say when she dies birthing your child in the frozen wastes of Northrend, with undead howling all around?"

Blackfinger flinched, and his face became stricken. Immediately Marbrand regretted his words; whatever moral high ground he'd held vanished as soon as he spoke so woundingly. "Lewis-" he began.

As if his friend had only been waiting for him to begin an apology the big man turned and stalked away, the rigidity of his stance suggesting that Marbrand had best be prepared to defend himself if he tried to follow. Blackfinger moved over to the young woman, this Geana, and put his arm around her. She seemed surprised, but wasn't shy in melting against him, looking up with an expression that made Marbrand's heart clench in his chest. He turned away, angry at himself.

It wasn't really disapproval he was feeling for his friend snatching up a starving wastrel to warm his bed. It was jealousy.

Redeeming Light, what had they become in their exile? Perhaps Blackfinger and the girl would've found their way into love in time, but after only a few days? How many other men were finding such miraculously swift romances? How many women were entering into it less than willingly?

And how would his disciplined men, close as brothers all, respond if he tried to prevent it? He hated this; it never would've happened if he'd refused to accept the women into his army in the first place. Such problems didn't come up when the soldiers were all men. He grimaced. Or, at least, not as often.

But these problems _were_ coming up, and he couldn't send the women away any more than he could've left them behind helpless to the Scourge. Which meant he would have to do something about it.

He stalked over and yanked Blackfinger away from his woman, ignoring his friend's fierce gaze as he moved out of earshot of the stirring camp. "You do as you do," he said, "and the women will do as they do. But I want you to set the best of the female recruits as officer over the others, high enough ranking that our other officers can't bully her. I'm making it your personal responsibility, working with her, to ensure the safety of the women and their proper integration into the army. Make sure the men know rape will be punished with gelding, soliciting prostitution by twenty lashes, and that includes offering food or other coercions."

His friend's anger had faded to shock. "You don't think any of our men-"

"Discipline aside, I couldn't stop men and women from getting together if I wanted to. But I want to make sure both parties are willing. I can't allow discipline to fall so low. I won't."

His friend nodded fiercely. "I'll see it done. Light above us, Marbrand, it won't happen in my camp or I'll kill the man who tries."

Marbrand nodded and turned away. This wouldn't be the last of the trouble to come from this, he feared. It likely wasn't even the first. But he couldn't begrudge his friend, or any of them, whatever happiness they could find before marching into the north.

But Light, let no woman be carrying a child when they went into Northrend.


	8. Hillsbrad

Hey guys,

Well I've been thinking of other writing projects I'd like to get done. My problem is I tend to tackle stories one at a time. I don't do too well jumping between various stories since my motivation always seems to flag, and it's hard to live in multiple worlds at once. So putting up a chapter a week I'm looking at several months where I just can't get into any other writing.

I suppose I could take regular breaks, like I've done a few times, but nobody likes that. I prefer speeding up to slowing down. So I've decided to do a surge and try to get Northrend done as quickly as I can, within the next few weeks if possible, submitting chapters as I finish them.

Wish me luck, and I hope I can count on you guys cheering me on as I push to finally complete the series :).

NT

Chapter Seven

Hillsbrad

A day or so west of where the road branched off north to the ruins of Alterac City they reached the fork that led south, into Hillsbrad. It was a desolate stretch between Strahnbrad and Tarren Mill, passing through the thinly inhabited Nazes. The Nazes stretched out like knuckles looming over Hillsbrad, foothills to the Alterac mountains. Between each one was a gradual slope leading up, from what he'd heard.

On his way south the only naze he'd passed was Sofera's Naze, overlooking Tarren Mill. From what he'd heard it was a popular haunt for bandits looking to hit convoys headed through Alterac. Any attempts to dig them out proved fruitless, since they'd only flee farther into the Nazes or into the mountains themselves; in that warren only someone who knew the area had any hope of tracking enemies.

Nex might have welcomed a bandit attack on his way down, another opportunity to recruit possible mercenaries. Volunteers lured by a grand cause were far more trustworthy, but one thing you could say for bandits-turned-mercenary was at least they knew which end of a sword to hold. There was no telling how long they'd have to train raw recruits before it came time to toss them into battle against a foe that didn't relent and felt no fear.

But they'd seen no one, bandit or farmer or honest traveler. A possible reason for that presented itself when they reached Tarren Mill.

Montfere stared down at the small town in the hollow of two hills with undisguised loathing. At the moment Nex's back was actually turned to the cluster of buildings encircling the mill hunched over the river like a jealous predator guarding its kill. He was looking over the town with his second sight, but there wasn't much to see.

A few dozen buildings, in all. The population could never have been more than a few hundred people. But now the town was deserted of the living, the houses in reasonably good repair aside from several which looked to have burned down. Explosively in some cases, bits of wood and tin roofing scattered about forlornly; possibly the flour ground at the mill was being stored in those buildings, and the flames had set them off. He recalled hearing once that a mill was a dangerous place for fire, with the air so packed with sawdust or flour.

Which might explain why the mill itself was a charred ruin, the water turning to black sludge as it flowed past the desolate bulk. The town hall, too, was broken, the roof collapsed and stone walls licked with soot.

All in all a suitable home for the Scourge that now populated the town. It looked like the undead had turned their efforts to destruction after chasing away or slaughtering the townspeople. In some cases that was to provide material for the fortifications they were setting up around the ruins, but for the most part it seemed they tore at the wood and stone simply for the sake of destroying what others had built.

"I thought undead didn't eat," Montfere said, interrupting his musing.

Nex turned his head to face the boy. "Of course they don't."

The half-elf pointed. "Then why's there a great black kettle boiling in the town square?"

"That's a foolish question, boy. I thought you knew something of the Scourge. You should have learned when your home was being destroyed."

Montfere glared at him. "I wasn't exactly on the front lines, was I? And nobody was inviting me to the big strategy councils."

Nex relaxed again, letting his second sight wander. "The plague cauldron is the heart of any Scourge encampment, wherever the undead haven't managed to construct a ziggurat. It produces the Blight that kills the land around it, spreading as far as it is able. It is also where the Cult of the Damned acolytes come to collect the plague samples they use to taint food and water, spreading undeath."

The boy shuddered. "It's not so big, to cause that many problems."

"They could cook you whole inside it." Nex gestured over his shoulder. "Notice the chains holding it down? That's not a stable concoction they have in there."

Montfere was silent for a time after that. Nex returned to his contemplation, fighting a surge of frustration. He was looking for tracks leading from the town, the survivors fleeing this attack. It was there he'd have to go in search of recruits, hoping their anger at seeing their homes destroyed outweighed their hopelessness at becoming refugees.

This recruiting business was proving incredibly frustrating. These land had bee wracked by war for so long that most potential soldiers had already been snapped up by one army or another, leaving those that remained to survive as best they could. All well and good if a solid perimeter was maintained to curtail the Scourge's movements, but unfortunately some asshole had decided to leave Chillwind Point completely unguarded. One of the major passes into the south, and closer to the Scourge seats of power than most, and its garrison had decided to wander off.

It was just a miracle Strahnbrad hadn't been hit yet. Likely these Scourge had just taken the straightest and swiftest path south, following the river, and Tarren Mill had suffered for it.

"We didn't see any sign of Scourge on our way south," Montfere eventually said.

"No. The commander of this force likely led his undead swiftly and silently to take Tarren Mill unawares." Nex stood.

Montfere was immediately at his side. "Are you going to destroy the undead?"

Nex hesitated. "I'd like nothing more. But they appear to be digging in to make this a permanent fortification rather than continuing onward. The tracks of the fled townspeople lead south, towards Southshore. The warning has likely been sent and soldiers are mobilizing to deal with the threat."

"But we're here right now."

"Yes, and our task is to gather soldiers for a real campaign. The Alliance army can deal with this threat. It's their own fault it's here to begin with." It would probably be kind to at least destroy the plague cauldron, but Nex was leery of directly challenging a Scourge encampment; it wasn't the rank and file who created the cauldrons, and any Cultists powerful enough to do so would slow him down more than he cared to be slowed. "Come," he said, turning away. After a disappointed pause the boy fell into step behind him.

Which was why both their backs were turned when the explosion hit.

Nex whirled, focusing on the source of the blast in time to see the plague cauldron go whirling away with two chains snapped. It made an eerie _gloing_ sound as the other two chains drew taut, yanking the heavy iron monstrosity the opposite direction. The viscous concoction sprayed over two nearby ghouls, eating the flesh from their bones and leaving the creatures to run amok as skeletons.

Another explosion hit, blasting into the middle of a knot of undead tearing the roof off a house and sending tin sheeting and stones flying in all directions along with shattered body parts, many still flailing.

It wasn't hard to track the trajectories of those explosions to the hills a bit north and east of their position. Nex turned his attention that way and saw a score or more of dwarves manning two mortars, lobbing their explosive payloads at the town below. It didn't take much longer for the undead to discover the position of their attackers, and within moments half a dozen ghouls and twice as many skeletons were clambering up the slope.

The dwarves adjusted the angle of the mortars to lob a few explosions into their charging enemies, leaving only a handful left. But those were too close to allow another reload. Instead several dwarves unslung heavy muskets strapped to their backs and fired them off, sending heavy lead balls whizzing downslope. Where the shot hit bones broke and skulls shattered, until only one undead remained survivor to the brutal volley, dragging itself in awkward looping circles on one leg that brought it gradually closer to the dwarves.

Down below the Scourge forces were marshaling for a more concerted attack, over a hundred undead swarming to the north side of the town. With cool precision the dwarves packed up their mortars and fled upslope, short legs pumping powerfully.

Their flight seemed intended to take them into the Nazes, and they were going to pass not far from where Nex and Montfere stood watching. But several geists, lighter and swifter than the other undead for all their spider-like crawling, were leaping ahead, quickly closing on the fleeing dwarves. The dwarves were organized in their retreat, smoothly firing their muskets to cover each other and reloading on the run, but it was obvious it would come to close quarters combat, and Nex wasn't sure any of the dwarves were capable melee fighters.

"Remember, outskirts of the battle," he warned Montfere. Then he was sprinting forward, already drawing two torpedoes enchanted for undead slaying and preparing a fire spell. The withered, gangrel geists would burn nicely, he thought.

The dwarves were immediately aware of his approach, and for an uncertain moment Nex feared they would open fire on him as well. But someone in that group had a cool head, and when Nex waved to them a few of those in the lead, lugging the mortars, waved back.

Then he was past the cluster of short, doughty creatures, leaping into the air to meet the leap of the nearest geist. They collided in midair and Nex took the thing's head off with his first blow. That didn't stop it from trying to wrap its arms and legs around him, so he brought his knee up and pushed away. Light as he was the geist was lighter, and it went flying away, in time for another one to slam against Nex and send them both tumbling to the ground.

By the time they hit the ground Nex had shattered both arms off the creature, and landed atop the thing, feeling it break beneath him, and recovered his balance in time to hurl a torpedo at the chest of another geist leaping for him. The force of the projectile halted the creature's leap in midair, and it fell straight to the ground with shattered ribs tinkling around it.

Then Nex began unleashing his fire. Two more geists fell in withering flames not five feet from him, and the third and last burned from behind as it tried to leap past him at one of the dwarves. The only remaining undead were those coming from behind, slow enough that they could now make good their escape. Nex turned and fell into a trot, coming up alongside the rearmost dwarves and running beside them.

"We coulda taken 'em," a dwarf called, puffing and blowing from the run.

"I'm a bit selfish when it comes to the Scourge. I always have to join in."

The dwarves who heard that roared with laughter. Idle chitchat wasn't the way of these sturdy, industrious folk, however, and no more was said as they continued their run, ostensibly towards the dwarven camp. If the creatures were mad enough to kick the hornet's nest that was Tarren Mill they had to be constantly moving to prevent the undead from catching them; the Scourge brought new meaning to the phrase "tireless pursuit".

Soon Montfere was lagging behind, and Nex fell back to lift the boy up onto his shoulders. Montfere wasn't very happy about it, but he'd grown used to being carried in the past few weeks. Nex was often too impatient to allow him rest.

About a half hour later they reached the dwarf camp at the top of Sofera's Naze. At least, they met up with ten or so more dwarves who'd already packed up everything and had a meal waiting. The returning raiders began bolting down food as Nex set Montfere on the ground and straightened.

One of the dwarf raiders, a big sturdy fellow with a massive mane of black hair and a wiry forked beard down to his waist, with two star maces hanging from his belt and a musket on his back, ambled over. "Falstan Wildhammer," he said curtly. "Well met."

Nex prodded Montfere awake and had the boy unfurl the Lion banner while he introduced himself. He finished off with, "I'm interested to know how a team of dwarf artillerymen ended up shelling an undead-infested Tarren Mill."

The dwarf spat off to the side. "We sorta felt like we needed tae."

"Because you abandoned your posts at Chillwind Point?"

The dwarves around him stopped eating, and Falstan's face grew even more ruddy. "They abandoned us, more like."

Nex quirked his lips into a half-smile. "Your posts abandoned you?"

The Wildhammer dwarf glared at him. "Word came round two weeks back, calling them Azeroth soldiers back to the main army. Although not really back, since they'd been holding Chillwind ever since arriving in the north."

"You didn't accompany them?"

The dwarf scowled, brow beetling over tiny eyes. "We wasn't included in them orders. And we ain't fools neither. Word o' how Garithos treated the elves has spread, and we weren't eager to tag along with the humans and find some o' that ourselves. So we stayed behind. After that a concerted Scourge attack drove us back, and fer a week there we played cat and mouse in the mountains until we could blow the buggers tae hell. When we came back we did our best tae follow the main force, but by the time we caught up tae them here it was too late fer Tarren Mill. So all that's left is tae blow up a couple hunnerd undead 'n go home."

Nex nodded. "Yes, you could do that. Or you could stop wasting your time here and do something useful."

Falstan scowled. "Ye watch yer tone, laddie."

"I mean no offense, Master Wildhammer. Garithos is a bastard, doing his best to either kill off nonhumans or drive them from the war. If you want to aid the cause it's going to get harder and harder. So you could stay here lobbing artillery at the undead sitting around in Tarren Mill for a while, then wander back to Aerie Peak and find something else to do. But as I understand it dwarves are more interested in digging to the cause of things, not just grappling with effects. I can offer you that."

Falstan dug a finger in his ear, wiggling it around. "Not quite sure I follow ye, laddie."

"It's why your Mountain King recently declared a switch in priority from mining to archaeology, isn't it? Your people had come to the limits of what they could learn about themselves through introspection, so now it was time to explore your past and see why you were the way you were. While I don't agree with that philosophy I wish you all the best in it."

The dwarves grumbled among themselves, wondering if they were being insulted. "Aye, and what's that tae do with undead?" a buxom female near the back demanded.

"The cause of the Scourge. These undead wandering around invading towns are merely the effect. You want to get to the heart of their existence, and that's up north. They exist, they do what they do, because of the Frozen Throne which controls them. I'm going north to destroy that artifact and end the Scourge for good and all. You're welcome to join me, if you wouldn't rather nibble at undead until their numbers overwhelm you."

Falstan was staring at him with clear disbelief. "And we're tae believe this fairy tale o' yours?"

"I'm deadly serious, Master Wildhammer. And you can be relieved that it's not humans leading this campaign, but a coalition of thousands of blood elves and naga. You won't have to deal with any Garithoses."

"Aye, and the blood elves're any better?" another dwarf grumbled.

Falstan raised his hand, expression thoughtful. "We're not fer liking this offer, Nex. The Bronzebeards teamed up with Arthas in Northrend and came to grief fer it. They lost their king. And now another human wants tae repeat the story?"

"Whatever may have befallen Muradin in the north, I'm not Arthas."

The dwarf spat. "Aye. Ye look less fair and feel more foul. That supposed tae convince me?"

"You wrong me with your hostility, Falstan. Are dwarvish memories as short as their lives are long?"

"What's tha' supposed tae mean?"

Nex reached behind him and grabbed the pole from Montfere, swinging it and stretching the Lion's banner into visibility. "I've come from the ruins of Draenor with the Sons of Lothar. Your own kin accompanied us on that expedition, led by the Chief Thane of the Wildhammer clan himself. There was great friendship between Kurdran and Sir Marbrand, who leads the Sons." Nex had no idea if that was true, but it hardly mattered. Dwarves put great stock in kinship, and in old loyalties and debts of friendship.

Falstan spat again. "Then mebbe ya should get Kurdran out here talking tae us."

"Alas, he remains on Outland with the remnants of the expedition, aiding our friends there in rebuilding the world."

"Bah!" the dwarf said. But he didn't seem quite so hostile. After a moment he kicked at a rock, swearing. "Kurdran's me distant cousin, true enough. I was too young tae join the expedition, but ye can bet I wanted tae. Swear me kin on Draenor's alive, laddie, 'n mebbe we've got something tae talk about."

Nex drew himself up. "I swear by my honor and the standard I hold, in the name of Lothar our beloved commander, that Kurdran and the remnants of the Wildhammer dwarves remain on Outland." An easy oath to twist, keeping enough ambiguity that he need not swear to whether they were dead or alive. Which was good, because he hadn't the slightest clue.

But Falstan was no fool. "Alive?"

Shit. Nex thought quickly. "I can't speak as to their fate since I returned to Azeroth, but at the time of my departure their condition was stable." Also true enough, whether that condition was alive or dead.

Gimlet eyes glared suspiciously at him from beneath bushy black brows. "I wanted tae hear a yes there, laddie. Say it plain. Me kin were alive when ye left."

"They were alive." _Assuming there were any alive when I left, yes, they probably remained so._

The Wildhammer hesitated, glaring at him. Nex knew if Falstan was Kurdran's cousin then the dwarf was what passed for nobility among their kind, too important to be leading a small team of dwarves garrisoning Chillwind. Likely he'd been the liaison between the dwarves of Aerie Peak and the Alliance army until Garithos effectively dismissed him. That had to rankle.

"All right, laddie. We're tae be going west then south, looping around the naze and hitting Tarren Mill from the west afore moving again. If yer business is recruiting ye'll want to follow us that far, since Southshore is straight south from that point. You have that long to convince us."

"Fair enough." It didn't sound hopeful, but was fairly sure Falstan wanted to be convinced. If he'd missed the expedition to Draenor for being too young, and then the expedition to Northrend as well, while being shunted out of involvement in the Alliance's battles with the Scourge, he had to be rankling. Even dwarves wanted to find glory.

Around the packed up camp the dwarf raiders had finished eating and were shrugging on packs that looked as if they weighed as much as those who carried them. The mortar crews carried only their explosives and the canister that launched them, but that was a heavier load to deal with. Nex waved aside the dwarf that offered him food, but Montfere bolted it down gladly. Then they were off.

For the next few days they traveled along with the dwarves, who moved at a swift enough pace that Nex didn't itch to go faster. He spent that time telling Falstan of slaying Rachondimus the dreadlord in the Plaguelands, of his battle with the Scourge while aiding the elves and his fight with the banshee Imelda. Then of Outland, the pit lord Magtheridon and his portals to Burning Legion worlds, and what he'd heard from the elves about the great battles to close the portals and take the Black Temple.

At first Falstan was skeptical, but by the end he was hanging on to it all. Those was the sort of battles people wanted to hear about, with heroes marching in and destroying enemies and enjoying a clear victory. Not some hopeless campaign to halt the spread of the Scourge while their numbers grew less and less and the flow of undead never ceased. It made a major assault on the Frozen Throne and an end to the Scourge seem even more attractive.

He learned a little of the dwarves as well. Falstan should have been a gryphon rider, but he had a terrible head for heights and didn't seem to get on well with the gryphons. Since most dwarf warriors either rained death from above or from a distance, that left him the option of going into siegecraft. That and diplomacy.

The dwarves were damned good with their mortars. The maximum effective range of the weapons was almost four hundred yards, and while all the mortar team spotters could do the math to hit the target, most of the time they could eyeball it within seconds and hit nearly dead on. Their gunmen called themselves riflemen, but apparently they still used the older, muzzle-loaded muskets, which were far less accurate.

Dwarves were stubborn like that, opting not to fix what wasn't broken, and the muskets had served them well for a long time. Leave it to the gnomes to leap upon rifling, and repeater rifles, and cartridges and eventually fully automatic weaponry that spit dozens of rounds in a matter of seconds. Dwarves had nothing but affection for their small inventive cousins, but it was the gnomes who needed to replace lack of stature with superior weaponry. The dwarven riflemen could reload and fire their muskets in a matter of seconds, and those heavy balls were devastating.

He also got Falstan to talk a little more about Muradin. There was tension between the three main families of the dwarves, the Bronzebeards, Wildhammers, and Dark Irons. But even so the Wildhammers and the Bronzebeards were fairly friendly at the moment. They'd been drawn together by the wars, engaged in a common cause that kept them from too many squabbles. Muradin had been well loved by both families, and in truth there had been talk of him wedding into the Wildhammer family and further strengthening those bonds. Nex had a feeling such inter-family marriages didn't happen often. So when he fell the Wildhammers had grieved right along with the Bronzebeards, and had further thrown in their support in efforts to combat the Scourge.

"I would like tae learn if there are any clues ta precisely what befell Muradin in the cold north," Falstan admitted.

"And beyond that, when Arthas learns of the threat to his master he'll come running. There'll be a chance to bring vengeance upon him for Muradin's death." Dwarves were keen on vengeance; their feuds could last hundreds of years.

Falstan never actually spoke a decision one way or another, but when they reached the bottom of the southern tip of the naze the dwarves turned south without a word. That evening Falstan took the Lion banner and affixed it to their own standard pole, flapping above the Wildhammer clan's banner, a golden hammer overlaid on two outward-facing gryphons on a green background. The amazing thing was that by putting the banner of the Sons of Lothar over their own, they were putting themselves subordinate.

At Nex's questioning glance the dwarf snorted. "Bah, just ye make sure this Sir Marbrand of yers kin tell me something o' me kin in Outland."

And it was settled; thirty-one dwarves had joined the cause, including two mortar teams and fifteen riflemen.

. . . . .

"It would probably be best if only you and a couple others accompanied me," Nex told Falstan a half hour or so north of Southshore. "We don't know how much of Garithos's poison has spread to the rest of the Alliance, and there's no telling how the arrival of thirty dwarves would be greeted."

"Fair enough. Me'n me cousins'll come with ye tae speak fer the Sons o' Lothar." But in spite of that Falstan did have a couple extra dwarves tag along; their task was to find a nice barrel of ale that wasn't too poor, dwarvish preferably, and take it back to camp. Oh, and also some gunpowder, although that wasn't quite as important.

They came on a checkpoint well before they reached Southshore, manned by a single man in full plate armor. He moved to the center of the road and held out his hands as if expecting them to try to sneak past him. Nex stopped, amused.

"Name and business in Southshore," the guard said, sounding bored.

"Nex, recruiting on behalf of the Sons of Lothar."

Surprise flickered across the guard's face, then outrage. Then, as if making a conscious decision not to respond with anger, he opted for amusement instead. "I see. Forming a new group with a stolen name?"

"No. I represent the original Sons of Lothar," Nex motioned to the banner Falstan's cousin held.

Amusement was starting to crack. "And I suppose you're claiming to be Turalyon hisself?"

"No, Lord Turalyon disappeared years ago. I've come on behalf of the survivors who've managed to make their way back to Azeroth."

Outrage won through again, and the guard put a hand on his weapon. "Enough of this. Southshore is a military staging area, we have no use for your circus here."

Nex didn't have time to waste arguing with petty soldiers, and he had a feeling this was an argument he was going to hear a lot. People venerated the old heroes, and some would respond to his claims with outrage. So he leaned on the guard's mind. "I can offer proof."

The guard blinked at him, then slowly looked over at the five dwarves, then at the flag. "Huh? Move along, then. You're blocking traffic."

Nex didn't even have to check his second sight to know they were the only people on the road for hundreds of yards. He nodded and brushed past him without another word. As Falstan passed he clapped the guard on the arm and said, "Keep yer feet on the ground."

As they continued down the road the dwarf moved up to stump along beside him, the maces at his belt swaying with every rolling step. "Heh. Sing a dirge 'n fight the Scourge."

Nex glanced down. "What?"

"Grab a sword and fight the Horde," laddie. The old Alliance recruiting slogan. I figgered we kin use one a those our ownselves."

"You call that a slogan? You might as well be saying "Sons of Lothar . . . march up into the cold north and die."

Falstan snorted. "Nah! Ya want it short, with a nice rhythm to it."

"Slogans are trite."

"Exactly! Ye want something to shout at the end of yer spiel, don't ye?"

"Stick with "for honor and glory!"

The gryphon rider laughed. "Ah, laddie, men'll flock to yer banner. The very soul of leadership."

Nex turned his attention to second checkpoint coming up ahead, this one with half a dozen soldiers and an officer, a graying woman who looked as if she ate hammers and pounded nails into boards with her face. "I'm aware of my limitations. Why do you think you're here, Master Wildhammer?"

The officer held out her hand as they approached. "Name and business."

"Nex, recruiting on behalf of the Sons of Lothar."

Her eyes narrowed. "Is that a joke?"

Nex fought the urge to slap his forehead. He _was_ going to have to deal with this every time!

He was about to press into the officer's mind when he sensed the presence of spellcasters within the town. Mages, for sure, but also priests, or possibly paladins. Even if he managed to elude the notice of the mages, priests were more experienced with mental attacks and there was a good chance his efforts would be sensed.

Damnit, that only left the hard way. "I assure you veterans from the Sons of Lothar have returned to Azeroth and are operating in Lordaeron, under the command of Sir Marbrand."

The woman's eyes narrowed, deepening her wrinkles. "What, Daran Marbrand? Captain of Archwizard Khadgar's bodyguards?"

That surprised him; Marbrand had never mentioned that. "The same."

"Where is he, then?" she demanded. "Why isn't he here?"

"He's recruiting through Lordaeron and the main bulk of the Alliance army."

"Bullshit." She glared at him. "This isn't a good game for you to play, boy."

Nex sighed. "Sir Marbrand is about a foot and some inches taller than me. His face and left side are scarred from terrible burns, the skin smooth and red. From his own lips I learned that he received that burn, as well as his knighthood and surname, while storming the fortress Karazhan to execute the traitor Medivh. He could have lessened his injuries by turning away but he wanted to watch the death of the man who brought the orcs to Azeroth."

The woman was staring at him shrewdly. Nex had never found the old to be any wiser than the young, but they often possessed far more knowledge, and placed a lot more value on details. "Who is his closest companion?"

Nex could only shrug. "I don't know who it was a decade ago, but these days his second is a big man, strong, with a frostbitten little finger on his shield hand."

Her eyes widened. "Lewis?"

He shrugged again. "He goes by Blackfinger."

Another intense scrutiny. "Well, I wouldn't expect even scholars to know that kind of thing. Unless your father was in the Alliance army and told you tales you may just be telling the truth."

"I have no father," Nex replied flatly.

The officer's eyes danced with the amusement of the old for the follies of youth. "That's a biological impossibility." Nex made no reply but to stand impassive, and finally her smile faded. After a moment she turned, gesturing curtly. "I can't make this sort of decision myself, but I'll take you to the inn and see you have rooms, at least, until we can decide what to do with you."

Nex followed along behind her, angry in spite of his best efforts. Montfere walked just behind him, with Falstan and his cousins a few steps farther back.

There was silence as the officer led them into the town, past military camps, most empty, and a low stone wall that was nevertheless well guarded. The town itself was far larger than Tarren Mill, with a few inns three or four storeys high and large boxy warehouses down by the harbor. The harbor itself had a few tall ships crowding the piers, surrounded by fisherboats returning with the day's catch. The ships flew the flag of Azeroth, and from the broadest one horses and crates of equipment were being unloaded down a wide gangplank.

They were almost to the first of the inns when a sudden thought occurred to him, and Nex slowed for a few steps before Montfere bumped into his back.

Marbrand, Captain of Khadgar's bodyguard. The burned knight had told him Khadgar was in Sha'tar'ath, hanging around at the figurative feet of the naaru there. But if Marbrand had held such a venerated position, how had he ended up tramping around Terrokar with a bunch of ragged outcasts instead of at his master's side?

Was it possible the man wasn't as honorable as Nex had thought, and had been exiled in disgrace? In which case Nex had left him and his men behind to do what they please while he wandered off with Montfere. There was a chance they wouldn't be there waiting for him when he reached northern Tirisfal, and not because of Scourge attack.

Nex shook his head, banishing the thought. He didn't consider himself much of a judge of character, but he didn't see such treachery in Marbrand. Perhaps he was a fool and he'd reach Northrend without any army at all for his naivete, but as it stood he couldn't do anything but hope there was some other explanation why Khadgar's trusted servant had been willing to sell himself as a mercenary.

The woman officer, whose name turned out to be Jereth, didn't actually nursemaid them into the inn. She might have wanted to, but before they reached the closest one a runner in a page's uniform trotted up and told her she needed to speak to Commander Daris immediately. So she curtly told them to find rooms and stay out of trouble.

Nex obligingly strode into the first inn, the Alliance Pride, and stepped up onto the railing that surrounded the recessed floor of the common room. Men immediately turned to face him, a few hooting and calling out dances for him to try, but not enough were paying attention. He glanced down at Montfere. "You know how to whistle?" The boy nodded and began whistling a cheerful tune. Nex hissed in irritation. "I mean that really loud whistle that gets peoples attention."

"I got ye, laddie," Falstan said. He put two fat fingers between bearded lips and practically deafened everyone close by. The room went dead silent.

Nex motioned back to the Lion banner. "The Scourge is the greatest threat humanity has ever faced. The Alliance army, brave as it is, is hard-pressed simply to hold the undead back. A more permanent solution is needed, and I offer it. The Sons of Lothar are preparing an expedition to Northrend to strike at the heart of Scourge power and eliminate the threat once and for all. We have already gathered nearly four thousand troops, but are seeking more. Come with us and be the hero humanity needs in these dark times." He fell silent but no one spoke, so he decided more was needed. "Pay is one gold Anduin a year, extra offered if you bring your own equipment. Upon victory there will be no need to speak of rewards, for all the world will hail you heroes."

Still no response. Nex hopped down from the railing and sat at the nearest table, drawing out a full sheet of parchment and a quill and inkwell. "Line up in an orderly fashion," he said mildly.

About that time men started laughing. Drunken guffaws, disbelieving sniggers, scandalized chortles. But there was one drunken sailor who didn't seem amused. He jumped up onto his table to say his own piece.

"Any uns who puts their name to that paper's a dead man, sure as I live."

"And yer a soldier?" Falstan challenged. The dwarves had moved up behind Nex's table, or at least three of them; the porters had already disappeared in their hunt for ale and gunpowder. Montfere was leaning against the railing, staring around the room while he tossed a torpedo spinning through the air and caught it.

The sailor scowled. "Don't need to be a soldier to die in the north. Plenny of sailors met their end their too."

"All the more reason to destroy the threat before it grows any bigger."

One of the other men at the table, a dockworker by the looks of him, tugged at his companion's leg. "Get down, Havid. Don't encourage those fools."

"They're fools, right enough!" the sailor insisted stubbornly. "And I'm telling you fools that if you go north you're going to die, clear and simple. Ain't no one gone to Northrend come back alive."

"Go or don't go, that's your decision," Nex said coolly. "But if you start speaking against the Sons of Lothar and our quest you and I are going to have a problem."

The filthy sailor spat. "There's for you and that rag you carry. I don't know where you found or made it, but there ain't no Sons of Lothar. They all gone to Draenor and never come back. You're an imposter at best, one of them freaks from the Cult of the Damned at worst, come to lead men to their deaths."

Falstan spat into his hands and rubbed them together gleefully. "Right, ye scrawny sea rat," he said. "Ye'n me, we've ourselves a problem."

Nex fought the urge to groan. They needed to recruit, not start bar brawls or make themselves out to be a circus sideshow. This wasn't going well.

In truth he should've realized it wouldn't. To really do something seriously you needed the support of people in power. He was going to have to hunt down some highly ranked Alliance officers or Southshore officials and bribe them into supporting his recruiting effort.

"Sit down, Falstan," he said firmly.

The dwarf looked at him in disbelief. "But that bastard just-"

"I'll make a wager with you," Nex said, kicking the chair opposite him out so Falstan could sit. "You go around to the inns with the banner and do your best to recruit. I'll do my own thing. The one who brings the most recruits in by the time we're done gets a barrel of ale."

One of Falstan's cousins snorted, and Falstan grinned. "Hell, laddie, if this's the best spiel ye've got I'll be drunker'n an elder at Winter Veil."

Nex smiled and handed him the parchment and sundry, as well as a handful of Anduins for display, then stood and walked out of the inn. Behind him he heard the dwarf bellowing.

Montfere hurried to fall into step beside him. "What are you planning?"

"Recruiting in to inn is approaching the problem from the bottom up. I want to do it from the top down."

"What does that mean?"

"Talking to officers." It only took a few minutes of asking around to find out that the big inn just off the docks, one of the finer places by the name of Jinda's Rest, was where the Alliance army had its headquarters. The inn stables was full, and off to one side of the stable yard two gryphons were tethered, their wings firmly tied and their beaks even more tightly muzzled.

"Wow!" Montfere said, staring at the huge birds.

"Why the fuss? You've seen dragonhawks before."

"Yeah but not this close." The boy ran over and began stroking one of the gryphon's feathers. The majestic creature, already upset at being tethered, looked as if it would've torn Montfere limb from limb if it wasn't restrained.

But it was. "Stay here," Nex said. The boy didn't seem to hear, so he left him to it and made his way inside.

It took him less than half an hour to learn that even the minor officers wouldn't be bribed, and getting official support, or even permission, for his recruiting efforts was hopeless. Southshore had been an Alliance staging area for so long that everyone was either already part of the army or were working for them in vital positions. Sure there were a few drifters and camp followers drawn by the army's presence, but pickings were going to be slim.

And sure enough when he found Falstan at one of the inn's halfway through the main concourse the dwarves were sitting glumly at a table, nursing large tankards of ale. The parchment was spread out in front of them, four names scrawled on it. Or more accurately four marks; none of the recruits could even write their own name.

"Sent 'em tae the camp," the dwarf said. "Laddie, I hope ye've had more success'n me. I'd give ye a barrel of ale fer every man ye brunged in, and a smack on the lips besides."

Nex slid into the one remaining seat. "Unless we can recruit Alliance soldiers directly we're in for a rough time."

"Don't get yer hopes up." Falstan jerked his head over to where a handful of officers sat. "They've been follering me all this time, making it even harder. Ye damned humans hafta make everything as difficult as ye can, don't ye?"

Nex didn't answer, and they settled into glum silence. He got some food for the boy, made a few arrangements for provisions, then settled back. Falstan began talking about other towns and villages in Hillsbrad where they might have other luck. By the dwarf's reckoning they'd do best to leave Southshore immediately and search for greener pastures. Nex half listened, taking in the susurration of the common room as well.

". . . think we should make for the Lordamere internment camps. They no longer house orcs, but you still get criminals locked up there, and way more guards than they need. We could probably peel off a score or more, maybe enlist the prisoners to military ser-"

Nex abruptly held up his hand, silencing the dwarf, and turned to face the small table near the northern hearth where that handful of interfering Alliance officers were talking. Then, with Falstan still looking at him in confusion, he stood and walked over to them. They fell silent at his approach.

"I apologize for interrupting," he began.

"No, charlatan, we're not going to help you find recruits. You're lucky we're not running you out of town on a rail for profaning the name of the Sons of Lothar."

"Fair enough. You were speaking of an engagement in the north?"

The one who'd spoken, a lieutenant and by far the highest rank there, scowled. "You listening to us from across the common room, rascal?"

"I have good ears. I overheard the name of the traitor Menethil."

"That's classified military information," a corporal growled. "We could toss you in the clink just for overhearing it. Anything that comes to us by gryphon is-"

"That's enough, Gaf," the lieutenant snapped.

Nex focused on each face in turn, then casually turned his attention to the inn in general, seeing if there were any mages or other casters present. If there were he wasn't sensing them, so he began working the complex and concentration-intensive process of mental manipulation and began leaning on the lieutenant's thoughts, while simultaneously soothing the suspicions of the others. As he did he spoke calmly, in the hypnotic cadence he'd found worked best for such things.

"We're all on the same side here, gentlemen. Information concerning the war is hardly kept secret in a military base. I heard you mention something of Scourge forces withdrawing."

The lieutenant nodded slowly, turning it into a slight head shake at the end, as if he were trying to dislodge a nagging thought. "I-I just overheard the Captain talking to the dwarf passing through to Aerie Peak. There was a major engagement, the Scourge systematically surrounding then slaughtering several settlements as noncombatants tried to flee. The General's forces clashed with them for a few days, and then out of the blue the Traitor pulls back completely, not even trying to stop cavalry attempts to harry and skirmish their lines. Last we heard he's drawn all his forces back to the ruins of Lordaeron City and is gathering his army."

Nex released his spells, so abruptly that every single officer glared at him with renewed suspicion. It didn't matter. "Thank you for your time," he said politely.

He was surprised to find his heart was pounding. Interesting, since he hadn't engaged in any physical activity and even in battle he was generally calm. This was something more than that. He wanted to run, not away from danger but towards it. To break north through the Nazes, levitate across Lordamere lake and seek out the Scourge.

But that was absurd. The dwarves couldn't match the pace he wanted to set, and Montfere would certainly fall behind. And he'd have to abandon his current objective. Not to mention the fact that his master's plan involved specifically doing their best to _not_ engage the main Scourge force.

But there it was. Stormrage had been right to warn him, and damn . . . he was hundreds of leagues from where he needed to be!

In spite of his impulses his steps were calm as he turned and walked back over to his table. "Send one of your men to fetch Montfere. We're leaving."

Falstan followed him outside, short legs pumping to keep up with Nex's hurried stride. Nex spoke before the dwarf could. "We won't go to the internment camps, unless I run alone while you continue on to Hillsbrad without me."

"What're ye talking about, laddie? 'n what d'ye mean, leaving? We've nae visited half the inns here, and I'm fer thinking we kin get a few recruits yet."

"Then do your best, but don't take your time about it. We need to be away by nightfall. No, we need step up our recruiting pace altogether." Nex turned his attention to the ships unloading at the docks, especially the wide-bellied transport that was offloading horses and crates of supplies.

"What did ye hear from them soldiers made ye decide that? If anything, hearing Arthas and his undead're turtling up in Lordaeron should be a chance fer us to relax our pace. We've been pushin' hard these last few days."

"We're going to have to push harder still. Do you know how to ride?"

"Ride?" Falstan turned and glanced the way Nex's head was pointed, taking in the horses being led one by one down the gangplank. "Oh no. Not on yer life, laddie. Even if we _could_ ride, the army'd never give up them horses. Not if ye could pull a thousand bags of gold out o' your little hole in the air."

"Then we'll steal them."

"What? Have ye gone mad, boy?"

"Marbrand is going to be ahead of us, and hopefully he'll be hurrying as well at this news. You don't understand, Falstan."

The dwarf threw up his hands. "Of course I dinnae understand! Yer not telling me anythin'!"

Nex finally turned to face the dwarf. "Menethil isn't turtling up in Lordaeron. He's finally become aware of the threat my master poses to _his_ master, and he's marshaling his forces to take them to Northrend."

Falstan visibly paled, making his ruddy features appear even more craggy. "Ye don't mean all the Scourge forces in Lordaeron. By the Makers, laddie, that's a tide no wall of iron can hold back."

"Exactly." Montfere came stumbling down the street with Falstan's cousins pushing along behind him, and Nex turned to address them all. "Falstan, take your cousins and go around to all the inns drumming up any recruits you can within the next hour. Montfere, get out to the dwarf camp and tell them to march down to the coast west of Southshore and follow it at the best pace they can manage until we catch up to them. By nightfall we need to be well away from here."

"Why?" Montfere asked.

Nex turned to face north. "Our time has run out. We're going to be racing the Scourge to Northrend, and they're much closer than we are and they don't get tired."

. . . . .

Southshore was never truly dark. Not with dozens of lamps lighting the streets and light from houses and inns streaming out of windows. But closer to the docks it got darker. There wasn't much business to be done in that area in the night, and everyone had gone home for the day. In fact this would be easier than he'd hoped, because the horses that had been offloaded from the transport weren't being stored in a warehouse, but in a hastily-constructed corral on the west side of the docks, near the edge of town.

Of course the corral itself was well-lit and guarded. There were more than sixty horses in there, and even though nobody would be stupid enough to rob the Alliance army in the middle of an occupied city that didn't mean they were about to tempt fate.

That was all to the good; Nex knew nothing of horses, nor did Montfere or the dwarves, and he doubted they could have led all these beasts away alone.

It required a bit of subtlety to work into the minds of the guards and stablemen. He didn't want to arouse the suspicion of the spellcasters in the city, and it helped that the inns they stayed in were far away, in the nicer part of Southshore well away from the stink of the docks. Still he pressed carefully. It was an impressive bit of magic, one that strained his concentration even as it sapped his reserves, but he thought he could pull it off. It didn't help that he was trying to influence so many people at once. Gold pressed into each palm and a forged document that looked official helped a bit.

"Saddle the horses up," he told the men gathered attentively in front of him.

One of the stablemen frowned. "What, all of 'em?"

"All of them."

A guard coughed. "Ah, m'lord, the tack is all still on the ship. Won't be unloaded til tomorrow."

"Felshit." The huge transport wasn't far away, and it was conveniently unlit and unguarded. Unfortunately, the reason it was unlit was because the gangplank was up. Nex glanced at the mooring lines, then back at where Montfere and the dwarves waited with the other humans. He gestured, and Falstan came over. "If these men stop tugging forelock for you I would recommend you run away."

"What's that supposed tae mean?"

"It means psychic intrusions don't lend themselves well to distraction, and distance is definitely a factor. I should be able to maintain it, but be prepared."

The dwarf glowered at him. "Ye mean yer charming these doorknobs?"

"No, they're willingly helping a couple of humans and some dwarves steal all their horses. Be back soon."

Nex turned and trotted down the pier, increasing speed as he approached the boat so that by the time he reached the nearest mooring line he was moving at a sprint. It was harder than he'd expected to run up it, given the way the loose rope bowed and swayed beneath his feet. Good thing he was light, but he still wished the rope was taut. Still, by the time he reached the top he was forced to drop and go hand over hand, pulling himself up over the side of the boat.

"Halt! Who goes-" The man's shout ended in a strangled grunt as Nex put him to sleep. He had spells for it, but in this case he did it by slamming his knuckles into the man's left temple, sending him crumpling to the deck.

More humans began stirring, sailors sleeping on the deck. Nex's concentration was strained to the limit keeping the guards and stablemen below in line, so he cast a general sleep spell to put them all under. It helped that most of them were groggy and not trying to fight it. The few that did he silenced as he had the first.

Then he as grunting as he heaved the heavy gangplank over the side, holding it as he pushed until its end rested on the dock. It usually took two men to do that, and its alignment was ragged, but Falstan was quick to straighten it before trotting up. Nex nodded to him. "Find the tack. I'll send up a few of the guards to help carry it down."

The dwarf nodded, and Nex left him and ran to the front of the ship, leaping off the prow towards the ground below. It wasn't a long fall, not even enough to warrant levitation, so instead as he landed he tucked into a roll.

Or tried to. When his left leg hit the planks it buckled, so instead of rolling he ended up falling flat on his side, grunting as the air rushed out of his lungs.

Cursing, he pushed back to his feet and strode over to the crude horse corral, letting magic do the job for his lungs until he could breathe normally again. "You okay?" one of Falstan's cousins asked.

"Fine. Take five of these men and help Falstan with the tack. And try to be quiet."

The dwarf trotted off with the men running behind him. Nex dropped to a crouch, concentrating on keeping his control of everyone as he set the stablemen to bringing the horses around and preparing them to receive the saddles being carried down.

It was only when he realized that Montfere hadn't moved for almost a minute that he noticed the boy was staring at him. He turned. "Yes?"

"What's wrong with your leg?"

Nex stared at the boy blankly. "I'm not sure what you mean."

Montfere snorted. "I'm not stupid. I've seen the way you favor it, the way it buckles every now and again, especially when you put a lot of weight on it. I've seen you heal from burns in days, but it stays a problem. What's wrong with your leg?"

Nex bit back a harsh reply and, thoughtfully, put weight on his left leg. Nothing. He lifted his right leg, balancing entirely on his left, then hopped a couple times. Still nothing. And there was nothing to find, either. His leg had buckled, yes, but he had probably just misjudged the jump. He was getting careless, relying too much on his second sight and not enough on his own reflexes. His body never failed him, nor could it; even if a bone was broken, magic and iron self control would still allow him to operate through the pain until it healed. "There's nothing wrong with it."

"If you say so," the boy said doubtfully, cautiously moving forward to let the closest horse nuzzle his hand. He looked as if he expected the large animal to surge forward and trample him at any time, but the gelding just snuffled at his shirt a bit, maybe searching for treats, then lifted its head, tossed its mane, and snorted. Montfere leapt backward with a casual oath.

Nex smiled, enjoying the spectacle more than he otherwise would have, given Montfere's irritating questions. "A horse is like any other tame animal. Let it know you trust it and you mean it no harm, give it food, and it'll follow you around with worship in its big, stupid eyes."

"_His_," Montfere corrected. "You don't talk about horses like they were things. Besides, what do you know about making anything love you? You have to use magic to keep them from bolting when you approach, don't you?"

Irritation replaced amusement. "Go help Falstan carry down gear," he snapped. "We're taking too long, and they're bound to notice what we're doing sooner or later."

But nobody seemed the least bit suspicious, and no one raised the cry as the stablemen began saddling horses and arranging them in lines, the leads of each tied behind the saddle of the one in front of it. Within a half hour sixty horses stood in six lines. Nex had the stablemen help lead the lines and keep them calm as he put Falstan, his cousins, Montfere, and himself on the horses at the head of each line. They'd have to lead the horses without the stablemen once they were out of Southshore, and he wanted to make sure the lead horses were accustomed to them, as well as the riders being accustomed to their horses; none of them were very comfortable in the saddle.

Since the corral was near the western outskirts of the city it was easy to make their way out along a small side street. Nex left the guards and stablemen who weren't helping them asleep back at the corral, and then slipped down from his horse and went ahead to make sure no one tried to hinder their escape.

The others led the procession through gates manned by sleeping sentries, down the street and along a coast road with the sea to the left and steep hills to the right. Nex ran along the top of those hills, searching for scouts and outlooks. He didn't find many; apparently most of the threat came from the north, not along this coastline.

Ten minutes later he left the stablemen sleeping in the sand, and doing their best to guide sixty horses skittish from a long ocean voyage they continued on to meet up with the dwarves.

. . . . .

The remainder of their journey was fairly uneventful after that.

They made good time with their ill-got mounts, although the dwarves never stopped grumbling and even with the stirrups shortened as much as possible they still had to stretch. They passed several refugee camps, and the villages and towns of Hillsbrad were still fairly peaceful places, innocent of the violence wracking the north just on the other side of lake and mountains.

Recruiting wasn't bad, but it wasn't good either. By the time they crossed into Silverpine Forest they had nearly forty recruits, enough that they had to start taking turns on the horses. Nex had tried the Lordamere internment camps, leaving the others to continue on to Silverpine without him, but the guards there hadn't even been willing to give up the prisoners to become draftees, and even if they had none of them would've been willing to risk their lives, not even for the promise of freedom. He picked up a few more dregs and rejoined the others.

All in all the force he'd gathered disgusted him, aside from the dwarves. He could slaughter them in moments if he'd wanted, which didn't give him much confidence in their usefulness against the Scourge. He could only hope Marbrand was able to train them into true soldiers on the way to Northrend.

Still, he considered this entire trip a waste of time. As they entered Silverpine he began spending more and more effort teaching Montfere, the only one among the bunch he considered to have even basic potential. Falstan and the dwarves were trying to train the recruits with the guns and mortars, although Nex thought it wasn't worth the bother unless they could get more of that sort of equipment, which was doubtful.

Silverpine proved in its own way to be more and less accommodating than Hillsbrad. The people here hadn't suffered so much from the Scourge, or from interference from the Alliance army, which meant there were more potential recruits. Not only that but they were predominantly woodsmen, skilled hunters, trappers, and trackers. The downside was that, because they hadn't suffered so much from the Scourge, they weren't so eager to jump on board an all-or-nothing attack an entire continent away.

Still, youths were youths anywhere, and they all dreamed of adventure and glory. Montfere actually proved to be a boon here, being so young and bragging about all he'd already accomplished. Boys several years older looked at him with envy, and it helped that those who tried to laugh him down or bully him ended up getting trounced; Montfere was more scrappy than he looked.

So they were gathering good numbers as they passed through. Aside from that the only truly significant event was when they passed close to the Graymane Wall.

"We're tae be going north, nae south, laddie," Falstan said with a scowl when Nex told them he was going to leave them to continue on.

Nex gestured. "The human towns have been most . . . inhospitable. Still, all avenues must be explored. Including Gilneas."

"Bah!" the dwarf snorted. "Was afraid that's what ye were leading up tae. Ain't heared of nobody passing the Graymane Wall in o'er a decade. Gilneas ain't fer allowing trade or even diplomats since the wall came up. Never even heared of spies'r infiltrators gettin' through in all that time."

"I'll explore it all the same. Keep the column moving north, I'll go alone."

"Ye're the boss, laddie."

So the eighty or so recruits continued on while Montfere followed Nex heading south. Nex wasn't especially pleased the boy had tagged along, but unlike his jaunt up to the internment camps this trip was going to be much shorter. And Montfere's endurance had dramatically improved since the beginning of their trip; he couldn't run all day and night like Nex, but he kept up decently.

Oddly enough, in spite of the fact that refugees were flooding every town from Alterac to Stromguarde the Graymane Wall boasted no tents pitched beneath it. Either refugees had come and been rebuffed by its forbidding silence, or the Gilnean defenders had led a sortie and driven them off.

Either way, it was a fair bet the wall was guarded, even if no one was in sight.

"You atop the walls!" he called at the top of his voice. No response, naturally. "I'm here with peaceful intent, but I'm not leaving until I get some response. And since I'm in a hurry, I'll tear down your wall if I have to."

That was an obvious exaggeration; none of his spells were particularly suited to breaking stone and mortar, especially not the sturdy craftsmanship of this wall. Still, Nex suited his words by casting a spell he didn't often make use of.

It was a Legion spell, used most often by doomguards. Orcish warlocks had made relied on it heavily in their wars, as it was wonderful for slaughtering large numbers of people as well as damaging fortifications. The fel orc warlocks he'd encountered in Outland had attempted to merge their strength in a ritual to cast it as well, although Saire and the Spellbreakers had foiled their efforts handily.

Rain of Fire. Essentially one exploded the ground in front of himself, launching stones high into the air, which one then twisted into demonic incendiaries and sent shooting at a target, usually from above. It was probably good to begin practicing it, since it would be one of his more useful when it came time to fight the endless waves of undead he anticipated.

"Stand back," he told Montfere. Using his second sight it was much easier to do this effectively, and he found a few likely stones to infuse with power until they shattered. The ground erupted, dozens of small to moderate sized rocks shooting into the air. Under his control they burst into flame and shot towards the wall. The entire structure shuddered slightly as they impacted, and one crenelation lost a sizable corner.

A few moments after the last of the incendiaries impacted a man wearing a gilded helmet shaped like a snarling wolf's head peeked over the battlement. "Good morrow, traveler. I am Captain Rowlis of the Graymane Garrison. Please be advised that mages stand ready to counter your next attempt, and two dozen crossbowmen are ready to drop you and your companion where you stand."

"Well met, Captain," Nex called up. "I understand you do not encourage contact with the outside world, so I'm aware of the honor you grant me."

The man stared down at the dozen or so craters in the wall beneath him. "Is this a jest?"

"I'm very serious, sir. I represent the Sons of Lothar, who have joined a host of allies and plan to storm Icecrown and destroy the heart of the Scourge. Will Gilneas join in the attempt?"

"No."

Nex nodded and turned, breaking into a fast jog northward. Montfere stared after him in shock, surprise rooting him in place.

"Wait!" Rowlis called behind him. "That's it? After knocking on our front gate in such a violent manner you don't even want to hear our reasons?"

_I never expected a yes. But Stormrage would've been displeased had I failed to try._ He could guess the reasons the Gilneans would offer. They were the kingdom largely responsible for putting together the Gilnean Convention advocating honorable treatment of war prisoners and injured enemies on the battlefield. They liked to believe they were reconciliators and arbiters, but in truth they huddled in their little neutral kingdom, surrounded by mountains on all sides and practically unassailable, and dabbled in the politics of the Seven Kingdoms with no risk to themselves. Honor drew them out during the Second War and they were mauled heavily for it; after that it was doubtful he could ever have convinced them to join a seemingly hopeless war against the Scourge.

They hadn't paid a cent towards the upkeep of the internment camps, or aided in war reparations.

Still, petty as it seemed he couldn't help but wish a curse on Gilneas. Something vicious that would rot them from the inside until their sheltered kingdom became a prison rather than a haven.

Montfere caught up with him within thirty seconds, and together they ran north. "So that was just another complete waste of time?" the boy asked.

"As far as I'm concerned this entire thing is a waste of time." The boy looked at him, expression wounded. "Not long now. We'll join up with Marbrand and this irritating recruiting will be done with and we can be on our way to Northrend."

"Then comes the fun part," Montfere said. From his tone Nex wasn't sure if he was being sarcastic or not.


	9. Free For All

Chapter Eight

Free-For-All

Marbrand looked down at the decrepit dwellings. "It's not much, but it'll have to do."

Blackfinger nodded wearily. Then, waving to the others, he started the column of refugees up the hill.

Their numbers had grown. A few ragged souls here and there, drawn out by their numbers and the order and stability Marbrand's men provided. Mostly those too feeble to help themselves, placing a greater and greater burden on his men. It was starting to show, too, with the way they collapsed each night into sleep, those at watch dozing in spite of all his efforts to discipline them. With the way they dragged themselves out of their tents in the morning, shuffling like old men.

Not enough food, water that had to be boiled. Air choked with poisonous dust, the hard effort of getting so many refugees however many miles they managed to go that day. The last three weeks seemed like a year. In spite of their best efforts they'd begun leaving graves along the road, most pitifully small, with no better marker than a stone with their name scratched on it. Marbrand didn't want to know how many dead, but the commander in him was keeping count, even if he refused to think of it.

Thirty-seven. In three weeks.

Another twenty-three refugees had joined up with the Sons of Lothar, lads and lasses barely into their teens. Marbrand should've been horrified by the thought, but seeing the alternative these poor souls faced almost made giving them the opportunity to stand and fight against their fate seem a mercy.

Marbrand sighed and shrugged his shoulders, the armor feeling as heavy as if he'd just come through a battle rather than walking at a slow pace for the better part of a day. Many of his men had taken to stowing their armor in the wagons, opting to carry the elderly and children rather than the heavy metal. As long as the roads remained smooth it was probably a good choice, but Marbrand didn't relish the time when they had to blaze a trail for their rendezvous point.

He'd hoped to find some safe haven for the refugees before reaching that point, but the land remained bleak and desolate as far as they traveled. He was beginning to despair, sure they would have to simply leave the refugees behind. The notion tore at his very soul, but what choice did he have?

Down below his scouts continued searching through the abandoned farmstead. It was a larger one than many he'd seen, almost a small village, which was good. More of the refugees would have shelter tonight, and those on watch would have a more defined border to guard; undead had begun striking at them. In small numbers, thankfully, scouts or uncontrolled wandering dead with no purpose other than to slay the living. Yet the number of encounters was growing greater and greater.

He feared there was a Scourge army somewhere ahead. And his men were growing weaker and weaker with every day. Blackfinger had been right in his own way, these refugees were sapping strength they needed.

With a weary sigh he squared his shoulders and strode down the hill toward the nearest structure, a large sprawling farmhouse. It seemed in better repair than most, with some of the windows even intact. Perhaps it had only been recently abandoned. He pushed through the door and inside.

Squire Jocal, kneeling by some cupboards in the kitchen, glanced up and saluted half-heartedly. "I don't suppose we're so lucky?" Marbrand asked wryly.

"Same as always. If they can't take anything else they bugger off with the gold and food. And sometimes not even the gold."

That was an exaggeration. Even in these horrific times, no one would willingly leave coin behind. The stash of silver they'd found a week back in a bucket down a well had likely been an oversight, not deliberate abandoned wealth.

"Check for signs of digging. Maybe they hoped to come back." But even as he said the words he doubted them; no one would come back, and no one had hope.

As much to avoid going outside and having to see the pitiful refugees, having to deal with them once more, he did a cursory inspection of the farmhouse. Then he wandered out and, ignoring a few calls, ducked into the nearby barn.

Empty of animals, of course, although the loft was filled with rotting hay. And come to mention it one of the rear stalls was filled with rotting bones; an animal left behind. It could be worse, it could be an undead horse or cow or other livestock. They'd encountered a few of those, before. Eating meat had been a queasy prospect for days afterward.

Exhausted mentally and physically, rather than seeking out where he'd bed for the night he simply began stripping off his armor right there in the barn. The thought of wearing it for another moment was too painful to contemplate. Pathetic, really, since on many campaigns of his youth he'd slept in his armor, never taking it off except for repair and cleaning, or on leave. But even though there was danger, even though it was possible he'd be fighting in the near future, he took it off.

He'd managed to get off the breastplate, helmet, and shield, as well as his sword belt, setting them aside, when his eyes snagged on a high shelf with a dusty leather-bound tome. Drawing it down he found it was a business ledger, the farmstead's dealings over the last few years. The last entry was almost seven months back, and it had nothing to do with business.

"_Andersons left with waggon. Thought Coopers would stay but went along with goat. Mindy suggested leaving too, but harvest is only 2 weeks. That food can do a lot of good for a lot of people."_

That was it. Nothing to suggest if they'd managed to bring in the harvest, or if Scourge had murdered them in their beds that night. Nothing.

He flipped a few pages back and started reading, trying to get some understanding of what it was like trying to eke out a living with the Scourge all around and the very plants around you rotting to dust. While he read he became aware of a presence and glanced up to see Jocal just inside the barn doors, waiting. Marbrand might have acknowledged him had he so much as spoken, but Azeroth's oldest squire remained subdued, so he went back to reading.

"Sir," Jocal finally said, sounding surprisingly urgent.

Marbrand turned away from his inspection of the ledger. The squire's face was pale, eyes strangely feverish, and his expression seemed almost reverent. He hadn't seen the hardened veteran so shaken in years. "What is it, man?"

Jocal visibly swallowed. "I, uh, was poking around like you suggested. It's a big farm, right? Lots of outbuildings? I figured even if the farmers had advance warning they couldn't take all the valuables, could they?"

The man went silent, and Marbrand stepped forward impatiently. "Whatever it is spit it out! What did you find?"

The squire lifted a shaking arm to point through the barn's north wall. "Back behind a shed. Signs of disturbed earth, old but not completely worn away. So I started to dig."

Marbrand felt a sinking sensation. "Bodies?"

"You need to see this for yourself, sir."

"Just tell-" Marbrand cut off with a growl of annoyance as Jocal turned and started for the door. But he followed, ignoring the questions from a few of his other men same as the squire did. The mood must've been sufficiently somber to draw those with nothing better to do along, because by the time Jocal led them around a dilapidated old woodshed nearly a dozen men were following. Jocal walked right up to the beginnings of a hole, standing over it. "Come see."

"If you've dragged me out here to look at corpses I swear-" Again he cut off as he came to stand beside the scout. And he didn't say anything else, all thoughts driven from his mind.

"It can't be that bad, can it?" Blackfinger asked, coming up beside them. The big man gave a grunt as if hit in the gut by an ogre, then slowly fell to his knees. "Mother goddess," he whispered. As frantically and tenderly as if he were digging up a buried but living child he began scooping away dirt.

Marbrand reached around his friend's flailing hands and closed his fist around the topmost object, pulling it free of the rotted cloth that had wrapped it beneath the earth. The farmers must've had little time indeed, only enough to bury their greatest treasures before fleeing the encroaching Scourge. There was no label, but when he popped the cork the smell almost made him dizzy.

"Brill's Finest," he whispered. "Fifteen years isn't long enough for me to forget this." And without another word he brought the bottle to his lips and drank deep of the burning liquid. It'd been so long it required incredible willpower to keep from spewing it back up, but he would've died before wasting even a drop of this.

He hadn't had proper alcohol in years. On Outland the best they could manage was the swill the orcs drank, but it didn't hold a candle to twice-distilled brandy. In taste or potency, and especially not in the earthy feel of home burning down his throat.

Jocal tore the bottle from his lips, tilting it up so not a drop spilled, and then he was gulping it down as fast as he could swallow. Marbrand relaxed back against the shed's wall, feeling the burning spreading through his chest like a hearthfire on a cold winter's night. "Report, Blackfinger."

"Thirteen bottles, sir, no label but good glass. Three casks all tarred to prevent leaks or rotting: two hogsheads, probably ale, one smaller, cider or something stronger. And a crate with the stamp of Northshire Abbey's vineyards. Probably another dozen bottles."

Marbrand closed his eyes, already feeling the lightness creeping up his skull. "Send word back along the line. We're setting up camp early, and tonight we're really going to celebrate our homecoming to Azeroth."

The big man hesitated. "Sir, in our current condition, and with so many refugees, is it wise to-"

"I don't care," Marbrand said. "Maybe happiness never came from a bottle, and miserable men never got less miserable, but I'd like to remember being alive for at least one night." He lowered his voice. "After this march, just one."

. . . . .

The smaller cask turned out to be filled with some sort of grain alcohol, clear as glass and so potent it made their eyes water and knocked some of the less sturdy drinkers flat on their ass. Any worries that even this stash would prove insufficient for their entire army was quickly dispelled when only a few swallows from what men took to calling the "Magic Cask" was enough to get large men roaring drunk.

Everyone but the children drank, whatever the old crones among the refugees might have clucked in disapproval. And perhaps because spirits were so low that they would take any excuse to celebrate, the mood in camp was festive to the point of being fey that night.

Marbrand even noticed Kyle and several of the younger boys sneaking off with a bottle of Northshire wine. He tried to call the boy on it but the words slurred on his tongue and there seemed to be twice as many people as there should've been blocking his way in trying to follow, half of whom seemed to disappear when he tried to push them aside. He ended up falling flat on his face and by the time he looked back up the boy was gone with his prize.

Ah, well. It was his duty to prevent such recklessness, but he wasn't so old he forgot the time during Harvest Days with his friends when they'd rolled away one of the barrels of new cider and drank themselves sick from it. It was a part of growing up, he supposed, and probably not such a bad thing as a crusty old knight made it out to be.

That was ostensibly the last thought he had until he was jolted awake by the sound of someone banging sword against shield.

With a groan he pulled himself onto his elbows, looking at the moldy straw around him. He was back in the barn, apparently. Someone had made a smiley face out of the rotting animal bones in the middle of the floor.

"Party approaching!" someone bellowed, the shield banging becoming more insistent. Cursing, Marbrand stumbled to his feet, fighting the simultaneous waves of dizziness and nausea. His mouth tasted like he'd been licking rotten fruit and gargling water from the Stormwind canals. Managing to stay upright and not sicking up by supreme force of will, he fumbled his sword belt around his waist and staggered to the barn doors, sliding one hand along the wall for balance. Then, two steps outside, he reversed direction and went to retrieve his pants.

By the time he made it outside a dozen hungover veterans were standing in a semicircle around a group that had been approaching from the road, less than a dozen in all. While armed, the newcomers had their hands raised and were doing their best to look unthreatening.

"Peace, we've come looking for food," their leader said. Then, glancing over at where Squire Jocal was puking beside the house, added, "and liquor. We're Alliance soldiers, out on far patrol. We can give you a requisitions mark for whatever we take, and any Alliance garrison will reimburse you."

Marbrand jammed his palm against his left eye, trying to stop the throbbing, as he pushed through his men and faced off against the newcomers. Where were his sentries? Had they all really been so stupid last night that they'd kept no one sober to guard the camp? And they called themselves soldiers. He could see knots of children peeking around tents and buildings, men and women sprawled across the ground everywhere, stirring in the early-morning sunlight.

But hungover or half-dead, he _was_ a soldier. He looked over the group. "On patrol, you say?"

"Far patrol, by order of Captain Temith." The leader's answer was too crisp, as if he'd been expecting the question.

Marbrand inclined his head, hoping it wouldn't roll off his shoulders. "Well met. Have you any recent news of the army?" But in his mind he was thinking _bullshit_. Among this group were two men in the ragged garments and bearing the crude spears of conscripts, one man in equally ragged leathers who may have been an archer or some sort of light infantry, three men in heavy plate that fit them poorly, two women who looked to be camp followers, and a man in the shiny mail and riding spurs of light cavalry, although none of them were mounted. He wouldn't go so far as to say this lot was bandits, but at the least they were deserters.

No wonder they'd come here. If they knew anything of the land hereabouts this farmstead would be a likely place to try for food and shelter. Perhaps the _only _place, which made him wonder why they hadn't gone south rather than into these hellish plagued lands. But then, maybe the Alliance army had plenty of men deserting south and had just about decided enough was enough, leaving these men to go the only direction available to them.

In any case it was a temptation to capture them and take them in for desertion. If they were lucky they'd be flogged to within an inch of their lives, although more likely they'd be hanged. And rightfully so; there was no greater dishonor than abandoning a cause you were sworn to.

And yet Marbrand made no signal for Blackfinger, slumped by the roadside behind them with a few other Sons yet perfectly alert, to surround the group, even though the big man was looking at him expectantly waiting for just such an order. They were newly arrived to this land, and he still knew little of the true state of things. He wasn't about to get involved in anything that could lead to the deaths of men he didn't even know, especially not where Garithos was concerned. Truth be told, he almost couldn't blame these fellows for deserting from a force led by such a man.

But he would not support them in their deception, nor would he feed them above those he was sworn to protect. Besides, he must be guided by pragmatism now. "We're the Sons of Lothar. Our mission takes us north, to strike at the heart of the Scourge and defeat them utterly. If you would eat, join us."

One of the deserter women laughed nervously, as if she thought he was joking, while some of the others had paled. But the leader remained calm. "You seem a man of honor, sir. Would you ask men sworn to the Alliance banner to betray country and cause?"

Blackfinger was on his feet, looming behind them like a grim shadow with his greataxe in both hands. "Enough of your lies. You're deserters, as any fool can see. Be glad my captain has no desire to see you hanged for your cowardice, and even more glad he's willing to offer you a chance to redeem yourself."

The man in leathers laughed in disbelief, not seeming the least bit intimidated by the giant of a man standing at his back. "No thankee, m'lord. We surely din't scarper from one hopeless fight just to join a worse."

Their leader stared in rage at his companion, incensed that the man had admitted their perfidy. But then his shoulders sagged in defeat. "Aye, we're deserters," he said. "What choice do we have? Garithos means to storm Lordaeron itself, a city that has withstood countless sieges over the years and never fallen to outside attack. How much more hopeless is it with the walls manned by those who do not eat or sleep, who will never relent?"

"Is there any other way to fight the undead?" Marbrand asked coldly. There was no reply aside from a guilty shuffling of feet. "I tell you there is. In Northrend the Frozen Throne waits, animating the Scourge, giving them focus and will. When it has fallen so too will the undead, forever. I ask you again, will you join us?"

"We will not. Should you decide to kill us now you're probably doing us a favor."

Marbrand fought a sigh. How often had Khadgar praised the human spirit, that resurged anew with every defeat. Had this implacable undead foe finally broken that spirit? "Very well. We will give you liquor, at least, to lift your spirits, and allow you to rest before moving on. And while you rest you'll tell us all you know of the surrounding area, as well as the army and the disposition of any forces you know of."

The leader's name turned out to be Garvy, and once he had some of that grain alcohol in him he proved loquacious enough. He was quick to give report of the Alliance army, in pursuit of the Scourge and working to cut off reinforcements seeking to enter Lordaeron. And of other groups in the area, farmsteads where the peasants still remained, determined to die before giving up their land. A bit of news from lands farther south, where all was not bleak war.

And then, offhand as if barely worth mentioning, the man said. "Earlier today we passed a group of soldiers battling the undead."

Marbrand leapt to his feet, aghast. "You left fellowmen to that enemy?"

Few of the deserters even had the decency to look guilty. "Wasn't our fight," one of the men in ill-fitting plate said curtly.

Marbrand stood, quivering with rage. It was one thing to avoid a hopeless fight, another to hide when a chance for redemption presented itself. To him it was obvious that these were broken men. Men without courage to ever again face the enemy they'd fled from. And for such men, desperate and hunted by those they'd called brothers, the only recourse was to prey upon those even weaker than them. These men may not yet be bandits, but they were as good as reduced to that fate.

The question was what did he do about it? He'd been expelled from the Sons of Lothar, and so he did not have the legal right to forcefully conscript criminals in lieu of judgment. The only other options were to waste time and effort seeing them sent to Garithos for judgment, or to exercise the judgment of a knight of Azeroth. He could not let them go, for fear they'd turn bandit in truth and bring further suffering to a diseased land.

"Tell me everything you know of this," he said quietly.

Relieved, Garvy hastened to comply, speaking of a score of soldiers in enameled red plate with white tabards bearing a red flame, fighting viciously with a group of undead. As he spoke the other deserters grew more relaxed, not knowing their fates had been sealed.

As soon as Marbrand was sure of the directions he spoke. "One last offer, Garvy. Or any of the rest of you. Join the Sons of Lothar and become men once more."

One of the women laughed coarsely. "I kin lift me skirts and show you the likelihood o' me becoming a man." Marbrand ignored her, eying each of the others in turn. None met his gaze.

With a sigh he gestured. His men had expected it, had known his thoughts as the oblivious deserters did not, and in moments all were caught and held. "It is the right of any knight of the realm to visit death upon a criminal confirmed of major crimes. I, Sir Marbrand of Goldshire, proclaim you deserters and traitors. You will die by beheading."

Now the deserters changed their tune. Suddenly each and every one of them was a valiant hero wishing to face the Scourge as one of the Sons of Lothar. Children were led into the buildings out of sight of what was to come, many of the women accompanying them. The rest looked on grimly as the deserters, many still with protestations on their lips, were held over a rock while Marbrand lifted his ugly, battered broadsword over their necks. Only Garvy died silently, resignation in his eyes.

When Marbrand had completed his grisly task, the nausea of his hangover combining with the distasteful necessity, he wiped his sword on Garvy's tunic and turned to Blackfinger. "Recruits will stay behind with five of the men to guard the refugees. Inform the rest we march in ten minutes."

. . . . .

Weakness and hangover notwithstanding, his men acquitted themselves well as they trotted in the direction the deserters had indicated. His men moved in clean formation, keeping the pace well, and they looked almost eager to finally be facing a real battle. However soldiers may complain about fighting, they all felt that excitement that came before combat. They lived for it.

Marbrand was looking forward to it as well. An opportunity to bash out his feelings of hopelessness and frustration.

Ahead of him Kalvit and Bertrard ran point, keeping their eyes peeled. He hadn't had time to set a proper screen of scouts, so he hoped the two men were alert. They hadn't had as much to drink as the rest of them.

Blackfinger, running beside him, abruptly veered off and fell to his knees, retching along the side of the road. Marbrand slowed to give him time to catch up, which he was a long time doing. "Merciful Light," the big man grumbled. "We had to find that stash just before meeting up with a real Scourge army?"

Marbrand smiled grimly. "Drink, fight, drink, fight, that is what we do."

"Drink, fight, drink, fight, soldier's dream come true," his friend responded sourly. "Remind me to throttle Torain after the battle."

Ahead Kalvit and Bertrard had skidded to a halt, looking off to the left of the road. Whatever they were looking at, Marbrand's vision was blocked by a stand of trees. He raised his hand and spread his fingers, and smooth as butter the jogging formation fanned out into a line, slowing to a quick walk. Marbrand ran ahead to assess the battle so he could give quick orders, rounding the stand of trees and looking at the field ahead, where the undead and the living swirled in the chaotic flow of combat.

It had to be one of the most bizarre sights he had ever seen.

As he judged the battle, an initial group of undead, perhaps thirty in all, had clashed with the score of red soldiers at one end of the field. Odd as it seemed, it was the undead trying to disengage, hounded by their enemy. Then, from the west, another force of undead over a hundred strong had swept over the two forces. But this hadn't led to the red soldiers being overwhelmed, because the original party of undead hadn't joined with the others. Instead they were fighting the Scourge forces just as fiercely as the red soldiers themselves, while at the same time fighting the red soldiers, so that it became an odd, chaotic melee with two forces hemmed in by a third, everyone attacking everyone.

Figuring it out didn't matter at the moment, however. The red soldiers were swift being overwhelmed, closing around a woman in their midst wearing the robes of a cleric. She was obviously favored by the Light, for almost alone she was shielding her warriors from the attacks of the Scourge, while at the same time fending off vicious spells from an undead among the original group. She was being guarded in her efforts by a man in loose clothing who was, incredibly enough, holding off the enemies who tried to reach her with devastating blows from his hands and feet.

Who knew how long they had held. But it was plain to see they could not do so for much longer.

Marbrand hefted his shield and drew his sword. "You remember how to fight undead, men?" he called.

"As if we could ever forget," one of the men farther down the line called back. Lavn, he thought.

Marbrand nodded and took his place in the shieldwall, Kalvit and Bertrard melting into the front line as well. Preparing to lock shields the men moved forward at a swift trot.

Undead were tricky, no two ways about that. They didn't have the overt brute force or sheer crushing weight of a felguard charge, but in their own way they could be just as bad. They'd fall to the ground and scuttle forward, or hit your shield and cling to it, weighing it down or skittering around it like a monstrous spider. If they could find a vulnerability they'd take advantage of it, but even a fully armored man had to fear them. They'd catch at his legs, trip him up or root him to the ground, they'd try to hold his arms, throw themselves over his head and block his vision. If they got enough weight they'd simply bear him to the ground, then keep on tearing and tearing until his armor finally failed and they could rip him to shreds.

Yes, it was a happy fool who could forget what it was like to fight undead.

Oddly enough, at their arrival the red soldiers responded, and it was only then that Marbrand realized that in spite of the crushing number of Scourge closing around them, the red soldiers had continued attacking the original group of undead, allowing themselves to be pinchered. As soon as they caught sight of Marbrand's force the red soldiers began fighting to disengage and break free, and as soon as they were no longer an imminent threat the original group of undead ignored them and redoubled their efforts in fighting the Scourge.

What was going on here?

Whatever it was, it was obvious first priority should be destroying the Scourge forces. It was probably a good idea to drive a wedge between the red soldiers and the original undead group as they did so, if for no other reason than to keep the red soldiers from exposing themselves to further flanking attacks in their efforts to kill everyone that wasn't them.

"Point on me!" he called. Immediately the men beside him began falling back, letting the line become an arrow. Marbrand directed that arrow into the middle of the three forces. He could only hope the red soldiers would turn out to be friendly, although it was certainly too much to expect those original undead to not prove hostile, whatever their strange behavior in this battle.

He was glad Blackfinger was at his left; point was a terrible position to be in this formation, but with the big man at his back he should be just fine. They closed to fifty yards, and Scourge at the edges of the battle were already peeling off to intercept them. "Double pace!" he shouted. A charge may be good against frail enemies, but you didn't want to rush into undead haphazardly. So instead they broke into a quick trot. Marbrand twisted his whole body and swung his shield, sending a skeleton leaping into his path flying aside, then ducked the other way and slammed the hilt of his broadsword and his gauntleted fist into a grinning skull's lower jaw, sending it flying.

Something closed around his ankle, he had no idea from where or how, and he stomped down hard and kicked, dislodging it. A foot, decaying flesh falling off the small bones. Creepy.

Then they slammed into the press of Scourge, and things became chaotic.

To his right Ged stumbled, and before he could right himself a zombie through itself at his feet while a skeleton caught at his shield and tugged. For a moment he teetered, and then the wedge coming up behind him knocked him to the ground. Marbrand was too occupied shaking another skeleton off his own shield to turn and help the man, and within moments he was drawn deeper and deeper into the battle. He could only hope those coming behind would come to Ged's aid before the undead brought him to the ground and got to work.

The core of this group of undead were odd, similar to zombies but less human in appearance, strange as that sounded. As if the very process of undeath had begun to change them into something of their own. It reminded him of stories his grandma had told him long ago of ghouls in the Duskwood, although he'd always sort of thought the creatures she described looked sort of like her. Withered flesh, dry, desiccated skin, lank straw-like hair. For a brief, horrifying moment the creature he was chopping through became her, and he bellowed in shock and slammed the sharpened top of his shield into its neck, snapping its head off and sending it rolling away.

Hands clutched at his feet, a skeletal arm wrapping around his right leg, and he slammed his shield back down into the skull of the creature clawing at his armor. It took three blows to dislodge it, while he tugged and jerked on his sword to prevent another ghoul from getting within his guard and clawing at his face with fingers that were no longer human.

He had only enough awareness of the battle to notice that, against his expectations, the original undead were leaving his men alone, in fact withdrawing in an attempt to keep from having to fight them. The red soldiers, on the other hand, were doing their best to join the shieldwall, shoving and hustling the woman spellcaster into the protected space in the middle of the wedge. Marbrand found himself fighting alongside a grizzled soldier in red plate armor and a half helm. He exchanged nods with the man, and for a dozen heartbeats they worked to cut their way out to the other side of the press so they could regroup. Then a ghoul tore away the bottom half of the man's face, so when he fell to the ground gurgling through a ruined jaw his helmet remained untouched.

The memory haunted Marbrand for just long enough to turn away, back into the thick of the fighting, but he knew it would reappear in his dreams.

He was fighting off two skeletons while trying to dodge the slow, clumsy blows of a zombie when a sudden weight slammed into his back, and he felt pain along the back of his neck where his helm met the rim of his breastplate. He lurched forward and snapped his head up, bringing the bottom rim of his helmet down, while at the same time shrugging violently and twisting. A ghoul went flying past him, yanking his head around as claws scraped against the side of his helmet. For a moment Marbrand stood stunned, breathing hard; if he'd left the creature for another instant it might have jammed those three-inch-long claws right into his neck.

He drove forward, slamming his shield down into the creature's knee as it tried to rise, shearing off its leg. It caught the shield and tried to hold and he slammed his sword into its skull, shattering it into three pieces and sending withered bits of brain flying. Revolted, Marbrand pulled back, then kicked at the thing to dislodge it and stomped down on its chest with a booted foot. Then he drove forward, making for the open space not five feet away where the enemy was blessedly absent.

When he broke clear he immediately turned, in time to begin hacking at a skeleton only a step behind him. The thing was fierce in its efforts, and its bones seemed surprisingly dense, foiling anything but a direct blow. It took over a dozen swings to shatter one arm, cut another off at the elbow, and then take off its head.

With no other enemies immediately presenting themselves he sagged, panting, and began looking around the battlefield. To his surprise he saw that a handful of his men had formed a wall alongside the original undead, not exactly turning their backs to the creatures but certainly fighting beside them. Not far away Blackfinger had pulled the bulk of the forces into a circle with a handful of men in the center moving to reinforce any weak points. The woman caster was in there as well, kneeling beside one of his men with healing Light glowing around her hands.

He'd expected that initial attack to significantly cut down the Scourge numbers. After all he'd taken down more than a dozen himself. But to his shock it appeared their numbers were unchanged, and even now they were swarming to surround both pockets of resistance. Were they somehow mending the damage they'd taken, or continuing to fight even with destroyed limbs and shattered skulls?

No. It only took him a few moments longer to see that Scourge reinforcements were streaming in from the north and west, well more than a hundred and possibly many times that. It was hard to tell. Along the northern front two monstrous abominations were rumbling forward, the ground seeming to shake beneath their pendulous steps. They were like a dozen men stitched together into one monstrosity, pale and hairless and leaking vile fluids. One flung a chain attached to some sort of hook, catching a red soldier just as he cut free of the undead. The hook punched through the red soldier's armor in a spurt of blood, and as the man screamed the abomination yanked, sending him flying back towards it. His screams cut short with a horrific _crunch_ as the abomination swung the cleaver in its other hand, crushing its helmet and the head inside.

Before he could even begin to think of what to do an odd hissing warned him, and he spun and looked up in time to see a bat-like shape plummeting towards him. He dove aside, stumbling as the thing bounced off his back and collided with the ground just behind him. Somehow he managed to make it to his feet in time to see an arm with chiseled muscles swinging wicked claws at his face. He desperately caught the blow on his shield, and as it fell realized that the muscles _were _chiseled.

Whatever it was, it looked made of stone, lank moss like hair hanging around its shoulders, nearly covering two deeply carved eyes that glowed with a cold blue light. And like stone the blow sent him reeling backwards, stumbling and nearly falling. Some sort of golem? It looked like a gargoyle you'd see perched atop a particularly sinister rich man's balcony.

He got his feet under him just as the thing leapt forward, stone wings flapping outward to catch the air as it swung one clawed hand at him. Marbrand sidestepped to get out of the way of its bulk and slammed his sword across in the same direction it was flying. It hit its arm and glanced aside, chipping off a bit of stone and notching his blade. He ducked the thunder of wings as the thing landed five feet away, hopping awkwardly to turn.

How the hell was he going to destroy something made of stone? His sword was the worst sort of tool for this, aside from something like a spear or a dagger. His shield might do slightly better, but for all its weight it spread the blow out too much. What he needed was a hammer, or at least an axe.

Ah well, no use wanting for what you didn't got, not in the middle of a battle. He set himself, ready to move out of the way of that bulk and do what damage he could. The gargoyle crouched, poised to spring, but before it could Marbrand was thrown to the ground, the air roaring around him and the earth bucking up to meet him. He was dazedly aware of the gargoyle shrieking and flapping up into the air, diving for a new target.

Marbrand pushed up to his hands and knees, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears, and looked up in time to watch another explosion tear through the clumped undead, sending shattered bits flying everywhere. He glanced up the hill and saw a line of dwarven riflemen there, covering two teams hastily packing another load into their mortars. They were firing into the packed undead pressing in from the north. The gargoyle was winging its way toward them, shrieking and sending some sort of wave of green energy their way, like a glowing line. Just before it struck the dwarves it hit an invisible barrier, splashing across it to form a sickly green semicircle. It started to send another wave out, but before it could a heavy chain slammed into it, a vicious hooked end wrapping around its wings and sending it skidding to the ground.

Marbrand whipped his head around, unable to comprehend what might've possessed an abomination to attack its own ally. But both abominations were down, one a blackened hulk and the other missing its head. Nex stood atop the chest of that one, gripping the heavy chain in his hands. As the gargoyle tried to push to his feet the lithe young lord heaved again, and somehow he brought it crashing back to the ground, displaying astonishing strength. He shouted something Marbrand couldn't hear, and a moment later two mortar blasts exploded on the stone creature, shattering its wings and sending rock chips flying. The gargoyle immediately stiffened, as if reverting back to statue form, and to his surprise its wings began regrowing, forming like ice spreading across a pond.

Nex started to hop off the abomination after the gargoyle, but before he could a burly black-haired dwarf wielding twin star maces leapt down the hillside from the the group of his kin. Showing impressive strength even for one of his kind he began hammering at the inert gargoyle, tearing off one of its reforming wings and then slamming one blow after another into its head. The gargoyle rippled back into its semblance of life and swung a chiseled arm, but right as its claws raked its attacker's face the dwarf's skin went oddly silvery, and the attack was foiled.

Stoneform. He'd heard some dwarves possessed the ability to acquire the aspect of the stone they delved, but this was the first time he'd seen it.

His attention was drawn away from that impressive battle when flame roared through the undead. Not the dwarvish mortars, this time, but a ring of flame pulsing out from Nex. It extended just far enough to catch the undead at the periphery of his men's circle, leaving the Sons of Lothar there unharmed.

Marbrand shook himself grimly, realizing he was idling while his men fought. It was hard not to be astonished at his employer's abilities, but it was time to get back into the battle.

The undead closest to him were sweeping around, trying to close on his encircled men and the small knot of original undead with his men fighting beside them. Meanwhile a good half of the remaining undead forces had broken clean away and were rushing up the hill towards the dwarves. A line of scrawny men and women had formed up alongside the dwarvish riflemen, preparing to meet the attack, although half looked on the verge of running away.

Nex's recruits; the man hadn't had any better success than he'd had.

Marbrand couldn't worry about them now, though. He began fighting through the remaining undead until he rejoined with his men. "Regroup!" he called. "Make for the hill, for the dwarves!"

But it was an unnecessary order. The battle was all but over, his men cutting down the last of the Scourge around them even as a withering hail of musket fire and a pair of mortar blasts melted the knot of undead rushing the dwarves. The few that remained met the maces of the wild stoneform dwarf, skin dusted with stone powder and rock chips and a pile of pulpy rubble all that remained of the gargoyle behind him.

As soon as the fighting became less fierce Marbrand noted that the original undead were edging away, trying to break clear of everyone and make their escape while the battle still raged. "Blackfinger!" he called, pointing with his sword even as he bashed a ghoul aside with his shield. Immediately the big man turned, and those who'd been fighting alongside the original undead realized what was happening and turned on their former allies.

Then Nex was there, blocking their path. "Stand down!" he ordered.


	10. Priests

Hey guys,

Making good progress so far, although I'm working through a lot of material I've already got prepared. Luckily there's plenty more where that came from. Just got to keep the momentum going. Plenty of free time, just have to spend it writing :).

NT

Chapter Nine

Priests

For a moment everything went silent, save for those few men finishing off the remaining undead. Everyone stared at the slight, slender figure, his clothes lightly singed, standing calm between the undead trying to slip away and the men who would chase them.

The few men who still had a path hesitated. "What the hell are you doing?" Blackfinger roared. Marbrand wasn't sure if he was talking to Nex or to the uncertain Sons of Lothar.

But the strange undead, seeming to realize their window of opportunity had passed, were now falling to their knees and throwing aside their weapons. Marbrand stared at the sight in shock. Undead, surrendering?

But Blackfinger either didn't notice or didn't care. "Move aside, boy. The work's not finished yet."

Nex didn't so much as fidget. "They've thrown their weapons down and fallen to their knees. Anyone could see they've surrendered."

The big man only looked more confused. "Surrendered? They're bloody undead!"

"Yes, which makes it all the more strange, doesn't it?" Nex turned to Marbrand. "You've misjudged the real threat here, Sir. I would advise you keep a watch on the Scarlet Crusade remnants until we can get this sorted out."

Marbrand blinked. "The . . . you mean these soldiers in red? Don't be absurd, we just saved their lives."

At that moment three of the five remaining red soldiers, everyone but the cleric and her unarmed guardian, made a break for the undead. Not to push past the Sons of Lothar who stood between them, but to cut them down so they could get to their enemy. It could be nothing but a suicide attack, since there was no hope of them escaping, yet it seemed destroying these undead were their only goal.

Hal screamed as he went down with a sword in his throat, and the others Sons of Lothar were still standing in shock when Marbrand reached the first of the red soldiers, hamstringing him and driving his sword into his chest as he fell. Behind him another of the red soldiers went flying with Blackfinger's axe embedded in his chest. The third, a woman, tried to stab Blackfinger in the back, and Jocal took her head off her shoulders, then stared in horror at what he'd just done as the body fell.

Immediately more of his men went for the red cleric and her guardian, still standing quiescent where they'd been. In fact the woman was still tending to the wounded as she had been before.

"Hold, damnit!" Nex shouted. "Curse you, Marbrand, where is your army's discipline?"

Marbrand stared at the youth in shock. "My . . ."

"Watch the undead, make sure they don't try to escape," he snapped at Blackfinger, rushing forward to press his fingers into Hal's wound, trying to stop the bleeding. "Lady Olivia, over here."

The red cleric smoothly stood and, certain there was no risk to her, moved over, hands already glowing. Nex hissed and drew back as she rested her palm on the man's neck, then shook her head. The young lord stood. "You think I give warnings to hear myself talk, Marbrand? His death could've been avoided if you'd acted faster."

Marbrand felt his own shock giving way to anger. "You mean we just risked our lives saving a bunch of backstabbers? What the hell is going on here, boy?"

Nex turned to face the red cleric, bowing slightly. "I believe the question is for you."

She was staring at the young lord coolly, eyes tight with emotion. To Marbrand's eye she looked to be in her late thirties, perhaps only a few years younger than him, and the blood and sweat that streaked her face created a deep mask of weariness. Marbrand wondered how Nex knew her, given his obvious aversion to the Light.

"We were making our way to the Scarlet Monastery," she said quietly. We discovered this band of undead and fell upon them, though they called for peace. Then the Scourge attacked. There is nothing more to tell."

"Nothing?" Blackfinger asked incredulously. "Your men just cut my friend down!"

"Not my men," she said calmly. "I am all but a prisoner."

"And yet you help them?"

"Whatever my feelings may be towards the Scarlet Crusade, they are living and the enemy is abomination."

Blackfinger hefted his axe, scarlet with the blood of the red soldier he'd just killed. "And what if we decide we'd rather not have our throats slit in the night and kill both of you?"

Her unarmed guardian, which no one had paid attention to during all of this, was suddenly there. By some twist of balance he managed to pry the axe out of Blackfinger's hands, and as the big man stumbled the red warrior tangled his legs, bringing him to the ground. In less than a second Blackfinger went from menacing the red cleric to flat on his back, the red warrior's stiffened palm hovering above his exposed throat, ready for an obviously killing blow.

"You'll have to kill me to get at her," the red warrior said calmly. "My intentions are peaceful, friend, but in this you have an enemy."

"I see I've done a horrible job of diffusing a tense situation," Nex said, sounding more resigned than annoyed. "None of us should be enemies, and yet we're all too quick to reach for our weapons. Stand aside, monk, this is no time for last stands."

The monk hesitated, then stood, bowing slightly. "I'll be the judge of that, dweller in darkness. I am Janis."

Everyone relaxed, although no one's hand was far from their weapons. "It seems I must treat with you, a stranger, rather than the woman I know and respect," Nex said. "So be it. I'm not familiar with that fighting style."

"Nor would you be, blind man. It is known as the Shattering Palm, and it was developed by the Scarlet Crusade specifically to fight undead."

"You fight undead unarmed," Marbrand said flatly, voice thick with disbelief.

The monk maintained his stance, but some of his hostility vanished. He smiled a thin smile. "Far away in a forgotten land of deserts, there existed a wind which stole the breath of all travelers it came across. _Vaje de minul_, it was called. "The Wind of Death." Tales as old as life in that wasteland spoke of caravans going out into the heart of the desert and only half those accompanying them returning. The wind slew all in its path, but not all were in its path and so they could see.

"And this is what they saw. Their companions screaming, but no noise reached them for the wind took it away. Others huddled, clawing at their throat, fighting to suck in breath, but the wind did not give, only took. And those few who knew what they faced sealed their lips tight against the wind and refused to let it steal the wind of their lungs. Men of great discipline tried to outlast the wind, and some were so strong of will that their minds fled to the blackness of sleep before they would release their breath. But release it they did, and the wind stole away their life with the others. At last a man set out to do what no other had done, and defeat the _Vaje de minul_. How do you suppose he managed to fight what no other had fought?"

Marbrand spat. Did they have time for this? "I've heard these sorts of gnomic stories. He likely realized that to defeat it he must submit to it, or some other nonsense."

The monk looked at him contemptuously. "You hear, but you do not listen, else you would have heard me say that others had died by submitting to the wind. He who speaks against nonsense should take better care to guard his own words."

Before the scarred knight could respond Nex cut in quietly. "You cannot fight the wind with any weapon. Therefore the man must learn to fight and master his own breath."

The crusader nodded. "And so he did. He learned to breath water, and steam, and other things his lungs could not bear, until they were like the bellows of a blacksmith that made the fires of his life burn all the brighter. Then he confronted the wind, and rather than it sucking out his breath he instead sucked it in and made it his breath. And never again was that wind seen in the desert. What do you suppose this means?"

"Do I suppose it matters?" Marbrand snapped. "The slaughter of undead isn't done with yet, if our fearless leader will let us finish it."

Nex ignored him. "It means that no matter how fine a sword you may be armed with, how superior and complete your armor, how mighty your shield, eventually you will find yourself fighting undead hand to hand, for they push past all offense and defense until you are as helpless to stop them as a man struggling to fight the wind."

"Until _you_ are as helpless," Janis corrected. "Let there be no weapon or armor to protect me from the undead, they'll find my hands the deadliest weapons of all."

"No doubt. It's time to put away your weapons, Scarlet Crusader. We are not your enemies. In fact we offer you a chance to battle the Scourge as none of your brethren have."

The monk looked around, not particularly frightened by being surrounded by potential enemies. "I'm not so blind as some of my brothers. They believe only in themselves, until all the world is filled with enemies. They cannot see that any who live are their natural allies against the unnatural foe we face."

"And was it the cleric you protect who led you to this realization?" Before the monk could answer Nex addressed the middle-aged woman directly, bowing. "I apologize for not greeting you formally, Lady Olivia. The circumstances did not allow it. Still, it is a pleasure to see you again."

The woman obviously recognized him just as he'd recognized her, but her reaction was not so warm. "I am not sure whether I can say the same."

"I'm no stranger to hostile receptions."

"Hold on," Marbrand said. "Nothing has been explained, yet. Why did the red soldiers attack us, and how do you know this woman?"

"Everything has been explained, if you listened," Nex answered. "The Scarlet Crusade was abandoned by the world, so they in turn view everyone as their enemies. They are so zealous in their cause they'd die hacking down those who would be their allies. As for the Lady, I met her when I stole from her." Nex turned away. "Recruit them or send them on their way, Marbrand. No doubt they'd be valuable allies in what's to come. But either way I have the undead to deal with."

. . . . .

Nex turned away, fairly certain that Olivia and her guardian were already as good as theirs. The woman valued destroying the Scourge over any other loyalty, even allowing him to steal the scroll containing the undead slaying enchant without raising the alarm, simply so other living would be as well prepared as possible to fight humanity's foe.

She'd be a useful ally.

To his surprise he hadn't gone two steps before Olivia pushed past her guardian and walked alongside him as he made his way to where the small group of rogue undead had surrendered. "The Scarlet Crusade made me their prisoner after I willingly aided you."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

She caught his arm, then hissed and recoiled as if burned. Still her expression was determined. "I'll not go back to them. I healed them and fought the undead at their side for the sake of humanity, but I'll not return. Better to travel with you, my rescuers." She turned an appraising glance at the dwarves atop the hill, particularly the standard Montfere held, then at Marbrand speaking in low tones with the red monk. "Especially if it is truly the Sons of Lothar who accompany you."

"You may be less eager when you learn where we travel to." Nex turned to face her. "We're going to Northrend."

She nodded, looking completely unsurprised. "Your companions were not particularly quiet in their recruitment efforts. Even some of the Crusaders were tempted. You should have heard young Mograine rant. I know it is the heart of the Scourge you seek." She smiled grimly. "Let the Light accompany you in dark places."

"As you wish. Will your companion be a problem?"

She glanced back. "Janis? He's far too enlightened to subscribe to the xenophobia of the Scarlet Crusade. His only true enemy is undead, and anyone or anything else is a potential ally." She paused. "Even you."

Nex ignored that. "You are most welcome. Our army is lacking in spellcasters, especially healers. Two priests will make a welcome addition."

She frowned in confusion. "Janis isn't a priest."

"I didn't speak of Janis." Nex nodded towards the group of undead. "Can't you feel the one channeling the Light?"

Olivia squinted ahead, then recoiled, face paling in horror. "Abomination."

"We shall see."

"You cannot!" Olivia said, aghast. "Ally yourselves with undead? That's madness!"

"Are you less enlightened than your guardian? Anyone or anything can be an ally against the Scourge."

She shook her head firmly. "You make a mistake here. Perhaps I have as well."

"Perhaps. Withhold your judgment until I have spoken to them." Nex motioned for the Sons of Lothar watching the rogue undead to part. Among the undead who'd survived the battle he could see ten animate dead little better than zombies, the undead priest and another beside it. This one had been inordinately fat in life, so it bulged and rippled beneath tearing dried skin. Nex sensed the arcane about it. There was also an incorporeal specter, possibly a banshee. He addressed the priest. "I didn't expect to see you again, Doran Havel. Nor did I expect to recognize participants in both sides of this battle."

The undead glared at Olivia with glowing yellow eyes. "I shouldn't be surprised you recognized that scum, Nex Aran. We are peaceful travelers. These ones attacked us unprovoked, and ignored all our efforts to flee or make peace."

"Yes. You can't expect anything else of the Scarlet Crusade. Are you ready to join me in my campaign north?"

All around those watching sucked in their breath in shock. Even the undead looked surprised, all but Havel himself, who simply glared murderously.

The undead priest spat, producing only a small spray of dust from his desiccated throat. "Join you, boy? Never. You slew Jarel Moor, my only friend in life and death."

"Yes," Nex agreed. "And incited the city to attack your coven."

The priest's rotting features became even more hideous, twisted in rage. "But still you offer? I could never trust you, and you'd be a fool to trust me."

Nex glanced around the ring of soldiers hemming them in. "You'd prefer oblivion?" Before Havel could answer he continued relentlessly. "I do not need to trust you, I'd see any treachery you and yours attempted. As for the Slaughtered Lamb, you were not innocent in that affair. At the very least you supported my expulsion from the city, and I have my suspicions about other things." Havel's face remained still and cold. "In any case you should thank me for what I did."

"Thank you?" the priest spat in mingled outrage and incredulity.

"That attack was bound to happen one way or another. The people of Stormwind loathed you, and eventually not even Varian's direct order could have prevented a mob of citizens from tearing you demon-summoning fools apart. I struck before the sentiment became a fever pitch. I made myself the enemy, and you the victims. I likely prevented the deaths of every warlock who survived that night."

"Tell yourself that," Havel said. "The Slaughtered Lamb is being rebuilt, but under new management. We may one day be able to return, but for now any user of shadow magic has gone into hiding." The priest laughed bitterly. "As for me and my undead brethren, well, what do you think we're doing all the way up here in Lordaeron?"

Marbrand strode forward out of the ring of his soldiers. "Yes, there's a good question. One that our good Lord Nex should have raised, but didn't. You're undead . . . why did these others attack you? Undead do not attack their own."

Havel peeled his lips back from yellowed teeth. "You bear the standard of the Sons of Lothar, burned man. That standard was lost on Draenor over a decade ago, as you were as well, I would wager. What would someone on another world know of Ner'zhul or the undead?"

"I've fought undead," Marbrand shot back, glowering. "Those raised by the necrolytes of the First War, and Gul'dan's death knights in the second. They are slaves to their masters. They do not speak with their own voice. This I know."

"You know nothing," the specter in Havel's group said, voice hauntingly beautiful. "The Lich King's control weakens, enough so that those of us at the outer reaches of his influence have managed to free ourselves from his grasp. My Lady is the chief of these, who sent me to bring these refugees to safety. We are the Forsaken, and no friends of Ner'zhul or the Traitor King Arthas."

Nex looked at the creature of the Spectral Plane thoughtfully. Yes, it seemed it was a banshee. He'd fought a banshee before, Imelda of the Rangers of Quel'thalas. She'd made mention of a mistress as well. He would need to ask more questions of the spectral woman, but not now. It was obvious Havel was the leader of this group, whatever the orders the banshee's Lady had given. "And how long has this waning of the Lich King's influence been going on? Months ago in Stormwind you were also your own creature, Havel, and no slave of Ner'zhul. Care to explain that?"

"I was a powerful priest in life. In death my power has not waned."

"In undeath, you mean," Marbrand growled. "I'm with the Scarlet Priestess, Nex. We should destroy these unnatural creatures. Their hatred for you is obvious in any case, even if what they say concerning their freedom is true."

"Perhaps." Nex stepped forward. "But why destroy allies? These Forsaken were slaves to the Lich King. Now that they're free they'll hate him all the more. Perhaps even enough to join us on our march to Icecrown."

The banshee laughed, a sound nearly as terrible as her previous wail when he'd slain the abomination she'd been possessing. "My Lady has no interest in an impossible battle in the north. Her focus is here, on her people and the realm she tries to create in the ruins of Lordaeron."

"I don't speak of your Lady, banshee. I speak of you and your companions here. Make no mistake, you have only two options: join us, or be destroyed."

"One more option than they deserve," Olivia hissed.

The banshee made to respond, but Havel forestalled her. "Northrend. There's only one reason to fight your way into the cold north, unless you're complete fools. You mean to assault the Frozen Throne, to destroy the Scourge."

"Such a thing isn't possible!" the banshee snapped.

"Perhaps." Havel shrugged. "But why should we continuously worry about being returned to slavery to the Lich King, when we can do something about it? I'm all for joining the Forsaken and serving the Dark Lady, as we agreed, and I doubtless have talents she would find useful. But at the moment I'm more interested in watching the Frozen Throne burn."

"Then you will join?"

Havel turned to face him once more. "Yes, assuming we can make some oaths between us. I don't trust you farther than I can kick you, and my foot would fall off if I tried that." He slapped his forehead, a disturbingly rattling sound. "But where are my manners? I need to introduce my companions."

Nex glanced at the mindless zombies waiting silently where they knelt. "You name your pets?"

"Don't mind them," Havel said. "They're animate corpses. No more useful than mules and, as it turns out, wholly inadequate bodyguards. Still they're carrying things far more valuable than they are, and more importantly far more potentially destructive. Alchemy reagents, in fact, so do be mindful."

Nex motioned to the silent, sagging overweight creature at his side. "And your talkative companion?"

Havel cackled, and several of Marbrand's men backed away skittishly at the alarming sound. "His tongue was the first thing to go, poor fellow. By all appearances he never did take care of his body in life, and in death he's no different. I never learned his name but I just call him Bobbulus, Bob for short. He doesn't seem to mind, aside from the occasional-" the undead bolted aside just in time to dodge a shard of ice the size of his fist aimed straight for his head, "-teasing magical attack. Bobbulus is an accomplished mage, formerly of fire but now more prone to frost, with the added bonus of being immune to the more rudimentary silencing effects."

The overweight undead made a grunting noise and turned his attention to Nex. It was hard to tell with postures, but Nex almost thought to corpulent mage recognized him, although he was certain he'd never run into a fat undead before.

"Remain here until we can get things sorted out," he told Havel. Then he turned to the banshee. "What is your name, servant of the Dark Lady?"

"Ithelia."

Nex nodded. Probably best not to mention Imelda. "You represent somewhat more of a flight risk than your companions, being incorporeal. Will you submit to being bound until oaths can be taken?"

"You would do better to release me, human. I could be an emissary to the Dark Lady on your behalf."

"No thanks." Nex turned to Olivia. "Kindly shackle this undead, Lady."

"With pleasure," the woman said. "But I still advise you destroy them."

Nex ignored that, leaving Olivia to her holy spells as he made his way over to Marbrand. "I need to return to my recruits, but I'll take a report first."

Marbrand shook his head. "I haven't had time to tally casualties."

"Very well, then I'll report to you instead." Nex sought out with his second sight. "Four of our fallen remain alive." He began pointing. "There, there, there, and there next to the third. The second is critical, I would advise getting Olivia to him immediately. A single Scarlet Crusader lives as well, though his condition is also critical. I would advise speaking with Olivia about whether she thinks he can be trusted. There are seventeen Crusader dead, eight dead among the Forsaken, and fourteen dead among the Sons of Lothar. I lost a dwarf and four recruits breaking through the undead perimeter. The Scourge deaths number two hundred forty-three, including two abominations, one necromancer, five acolytes of the Cult of the Damned, and one gargoyle."

"I assume you took care of most of those," Marbrand muttered. Nex simply looked at him until the burned knight shook his head. "Whatever else, my Lord, your timing was fortuitous."

Nex snorted. "Not really. We were here two days, trying to figure out a way to get past the Scourge encampment. If anything it was _your_ arrival that was a surprise. I'd expected you to be much farther north." Marbrand made no response, and Nex clapped a hand on the burned knight's shoulder, pretending not to notice Marbrand's obvious reluctance. "We'll get together after we've seen to what needs seeing to and tally our total number of recruits, make plans for the march to come. Anything I should know?"

Marbrand nodded. "We're escorting a couple hundred refugees, trying to find a safe place for them."

For a moment Nex stiffened, wrestling with a surge of anger. This was what Marbrand had been wasting all these weeks on? But he wisely said nothing, simply turned to the hillside and started up towards his recruits.

. . . . .

As Lord Nex walked away Marbrand watched him go, torn between rage, grief, and shock. Too many things had happened too quickly, and he would not have wished to hear of his men's deaths from the cold, uncaring lips of his employer.

He wasn't the only one watching Nex leave, however. And he could sense trouble brewing in Blackfinger's expression. Marbrand moved up alongside his friend and clapped him on the shoulder. The big man glanced over. "What?"

"Nothing. Just that you've got that expression on your face that tells me you're about to go chop someone in half, all the while staring intently at our employer."

The big man made a low, dangerous noise. "You heard that stinking undead Havel, Dare. He's an _Aran_."

Marbrand sighed. He'd been hoping he was the only one who'd noticed that. "I fail to see how it matters."

Blackfinger shrugged his hand away. "You should have more problems with this than anyone, after what you suffered."

Marbrand could feel the flames burning him once again, searing agony in his sockets, down his arms. The pain of the burns had never left him, for all that the scarred skin that remained was numb. "I do," he said quietly. "But whoever he is, whatever he is, Nex saved us. He brought us home. And thus far he's done right by us."

"Like hell! We've sworn ourselves to a hopeless cause in his service, and now this kinsman to the Dark Guardian Medivh is accepting undead into his forces? The men won't follow him north. _I _won't follow him north."

Marbrand caught his friend's wrist as Blackfinger reached up for his axe. "Let me talk to him, at least. Let me see if I can find the truth of his motives."

"He's a warlock in service to a demon, allying himself with undead. What more truth do you need?"

"I made an oath, old friend. I won't break it lightly."

For another moment he was afraid Blackfinger would simply brush past him. Then the big man sighed and stepped away. "I serve at your convenience, sir, not my own."

Marbrand sighed, then went to fetch the Lady Olivia to aid his fallen men.

There was much to do after the battle. They had to gather up the dead who had been living, strip them of weapons and armor, and chop wood from the nearby stand of trees for a bonfire. Marbrand felt soiled looting his own men on the battlefield, but they needed the equipment. Burning them he accepted as practical. He also set Nex's recruits to picking through the destroyed undead, taking whatever weapons and armor was worth salvaging. Much of it was chipped, dented, rusty, and dull, but the recruits could learn how to care for their equipment while repairing it, benefiting everyone.

Almost a greater prize than the recruits Nex had brought were the horses. Most of his men hadn't fought from horseback for years, but there was no denying the use of such mounts, especially not against enemies like the undead. He was looking forward to putting his remaining men on horseback along with the best of the recruits and having cavalry to work with, but for the moment they made useful mounts to carry the wounded, as well as to pack the equipment they couldn't carry on their backs.

He had a chance to shake the hand of the dwarf who'd destroyed the gargoyle, a Falstan Wildhammer. He didn't recognize the name, but he had known many good Wildhammers on the expedition to Draenor, and the wiry-haired dwarf seemed eager for that sort of news, particularly concerning his cousin Kurdran.

Much of Falstan's talk, however, was business. How to integrate his dwarves into the army, how to deal with the recruits they'd gathered, lamenting the use of so much gunpowder in this engagement and speculation on whether more could be gathered.

It soon became obvious that he would be wise to place Falstan as third in his army, behind Blackfinger in authority. The dwarf was quality, and quality needed to be used. So as the Sons of Lothar joined up with Nex's recruits to return to the farmstead it was Blackfinger, Falstan, Marbrand, and Ilinar who walked together speaking of what must be done. Although truth to tell Ilinar walked behind, carrying the banners of the Sons of Lothar and the Wildhammers. Nex had vanished not long after the battle ended, and the group of undead was walking at the rear of the lines, with the two former Scarlet Crusaders watching over them suspiciously, while half a dozen Sons of Lothar watched over _them_.

It only grew more chaotic when they arrived back at the farmstead and Nex's ninety or so met up with their hundreds. Children ran everywhere, tugging at dwarf beards, running their hands along musket bores, forming a circle around the herd of horses and staring at them shyly with big eyes, although few had the courage to come forward and offer the mounts clumps of hay, or pet their noses. The dwarves seemed to have no problems getting along with the children, roaring at them in mock anger and sending them scattering in all directions laughing and squealing.

The mood after the battle was almost festive, and there was good reason for it. Silverpine Forest was still a fairly rich land, little touched by war or plague, and Nex's recruits had gathered a good supply of food on their way north. Many of his recruits were woodsmen, knowing the right plants to gather and how to hunt game, and so their saddlebags and packs were bursting with provisions. Nex, knowing the plaguelands, had had the foresight to set his men to gathering what they needed before setting foot there.

Almost as great a boon was the presence of the Lady Olivia, moving through the sick and afflicted with her healing hands. She was drained from the battle, however, and after a time, faced with the sheer volume of suffering, she actually turned to the undead priest, Havel, for aid. She obviously wasn't pleased about it, and neither was anyone else, but Marbrand had learned long ago that you could get used to anything if you didn't have a choice. Soon the sick were lining up, or more accurately edging forward, to let Havel's glowing hands do their work, never actually touching anyone, while a dozen men stood ready to chop the undead to pieces if he tried anything. As Marbrand had anticipated, having a servant of the Light in camp provided an incredible boost to morale, and his men practically worshipped the auburn-haired priestess, for all the nature of her former companions.

As for the undead, he showed remarkable skill with healing, so much that even Olivia seemed impressed.

Marbrand found his eyes following Olivia, though not from mere interest in her activities. While working with her on the battlefield she'd been merely a cleric available to aid them, but now that she'd done her best to wash herself she was starting to look less like a cleric and more like a woman. Not only a woman, but one of incredible patience and tenderness. Before long she had her own flock of children following her around, bringing her wilted flowers or other presents, which she accepted graciously.

Marbrand had little time for observation, however, as he was occupied trying to organize recruits into ranks, deal with the flood of children and elderly who, buoyed by the victory, now wanted to join as well, manage equipment, control the distribution of food, and manage a dozen other tasks that presented themselves. The day passed in a blur as he turned his focus from escorting a weakening force across a dead land to dealing with forming raw recruits into an army and planning for their training.

. . . . .

His head was pounding so much that it was hard to concentrate even on simple tasks, but Nex ignored the pain as he continued running his hands around the spellform within the ziggurat, trying to find out how it worked or, at least, how to neutralize it to halt the spread of Blight from the cursed tower.

It had been a hassle to force his way past the tower's magical defenses, torrents of spiritual energy that streamed toward him like the wails of a lost soul. The key had been to shatter the green, free-floating crystal atop it, although that was easier said than done. After his previous fight with the undead, particularly the necromancer with his surprisingly wicked death coils, he was so exhausted that he nearly failed and paid the price for it.

He couldn't fault Marbrand and the others for failing to consider the Scourge encampment. Even with all the undead destroyed the place still remained a risk, particularly the ziggurat itself. That structure suggested this was a major emplacement, one where more than a mere plague cauldron was needed.

So here he was, standing over a pool of stinking, acidic ichor on a small platform trying to figure out how to stop a powerful enchantment from continuing to spread death and Blight to the countryside.

Finally, frustrated, he dropped his hand to the cloth wrapped around NexTaeja's hilt.

_'You think this flimsy veil will ward my power?' _the sword raged.

_You have a hilt made of fused diamonds. That's bound to attract notice, and I'd sooner not have to kill would-be thieves._

_'Wrong answer!'_

_Forget that. What do you make of this?_ Nex gestured to the intricate tangle of unholy energy.

_'I think it makes a good start of doing my job. Unsatisfactory, however, since it fails to demolecularize the matter it taints. Utterly unsatisfactory! It's not nothing, merely corrupted existence! Shu'jaknath mish kivlanguk akhol! It may make my job even harder!'_

_How would you suggest dealing with it?_

_'Carefully. If you could wield me it would be a different story. Shove my hilt into the midst of it and let me channel my power through you.'_

_Shouldn't it be me asking you to channel your power through me?_

_'There is no difference between the two assertions. Quit wasting my time.'_

_There's an incredible difference between the two. One is me using you, the other is you using me._ Only blank irritation from the sword. Nex sighed and unbuckled his belt, shoving the sword's hilt into the middle of the sickly green spell matrix. As soon as his hand touched it he stiffened, gritting his teeth in pain, and staring in horror as corruption began spreading up his fingers.

He'd expected the sword to protect him from this.

_'You said you wanted it dealt with. Now it's a struggle between life and death, fighting the battle where the spell's defenses think it strongest.'_

_It's where it _is_ strongest!_

_'Then you'd best hope you can use my power effectively to combat it. Draw on my power and rip the spell to shreds.'_

Nex snarled and drew a surge of power from the sword, feeling it burn like agony within him. He hated Holy energy. Why was he doing this? Well, because his reserves were tapped and he had nothing else. But aside from that.

He tried to do what the sword suggested and merely "rip the spell to shreds", but the thing was almost sentient in its defenses, responding to his power with power of its own. And he had to also protect himself, to prevent a surge of unholy energy from destroying him from the inside out within moments. It was like wrestling with a boa constrictor, trying to crush it even as it tried to crush him, and knowing if he disengaged its jaws would snap in and sting him with a poisonous bite.

Finally, after what seemed hours of struggling, he found the source of the spell's power. Or at least where the power entered the spell; he had no idea where it was getting its power or why such power was available to it. There were no ley lines or magical nexi anywhere in the area. But once he had the source it was a simple matter to surge NexTaeja's power into it. The spell shivered, then imploded, sending him flying backwards to slam against the wall of the ziggurat and slump to the floor.

_'You're really bad at this, you know that?'_

Nex stared down at his arm, at the flecks of blackened flesh and graying skin stretching past his elbow. Then he told the sword to do something that was logically impossible to itself and let go of the hilt, belting it back around his waist.

An hour later he shuffled over the final hill and into sight of the farmstead below where Marbrand's army was gathered. It was hard to take one step after another, and equally hard to focus on anything. Up ahead in a copse of trees that wasn't entirely dead he was aware of the red monk, Janis, doing some sort of stretches or combat forms. By the looks of them they were straining his muscles to the limits of their flexibility, as well as gradually testing their endurance. Oddly enough a dozen or so children were standing behind the man, trying to mimic his actions and giggling when they fell over or bumped into each other.

All but one, a girl of maybe six or seven who was dancing around gathering leaves. She seemed totally oblivious to her surroundings, not seeming to notice Nex as she approached where he was standing. The playing child was nearly beneath Nex's feet before she seemed to become aware of him. Immediately she shrieked in fear and bolted, weaving through the trees in a flash and diving behind Janis's legs. Nex remained standing where he was, and after a few moments she mustered the courage to poke her head into view. "You stupid weirdo!" she shouted at him. She tugged at the leg of Janis's loose pants. "He's such a stupid weirdo!" she informed him.

Nex made no reply but to continue regarding them both wearily, and after a moment the monk's lips flickered in a brief smile. "Out of the mouths of babes."

"A recruit?" Nex asked.

Janis sighed. "If one can maintain concentration in the heat of battle, letting the laughter of children wash past unheeded is simplicity itself." The man turned and shooed the children away, telling them to go back to the farmstead and find Olivia. They all scampered off, although the little girl turned and gave Nex one last suspicious glare. After that the monk simply resumed his exercises, ignoring him, until Nex realized he was going to have to speak.

"Am I interrupting you, monk?"

Janis paused in mid-kick and pivoted smoothly on one foot. "Why do you ask a question for which you already know the answer?" Nex shrugged and turned to walk away. He could sympathize with a desire to be alone, and his purpose could wait until he'd had some rest. But he hadn't gone far before the Scarlet Crusader raised his voice slightly. "That said, a wise man once told me when a man knocks upon a hermit's door once, the hermit is glad to answer. Should he knock again every day, however, the hermit soon grows weary of his presence. What did you wish?"

Nex turned. "Olivia is not pleased to have undead in our midst, but she's not the sort who would take precipitous action. I wanted to reassure myself that you're not, either."

Janis dropped down into a squat, then carefully stretched one leg straight out to the side, holding it horizontal to the ground as he balanced on the ball of one foot. In that position, with not a sign of strain, he regarded Nex calmly. "A child once traveled to a kinsman's house far away. Upon his travel he came upon a river, broad and deep, but the child was not concerned for he was a strong swimmer and this river's currents held no surprises for him.

"He was about to wade into the water when he saw a scorpion skittering on the riverbank, looking to the other side of the river with longing. When the scorpion became aware of him he turned and spoke, saying "please, friend, I cannot swim. Would you clasp me to your bosom as you cross this river, safe within your shirt?"

From a crouching position the monk somehow leapt nearly three feet into the air, snapping his outstretched leg back in to land on it and stretching his other out in the reverse of his previous position. He continued as if there'd been no interruption. "The child was tenderhearted, and generous to all he met. So he took up the scorpion and settled him inside his shirt, just over his heart, and began to swim the stream. The scorpion was quiet where it rested all the while the boy swam, until finally he was staggering up onto the other bank. Then the scorpion stung the boy as he tried to fish it out. As the boy lay dying he looked upon the insect on his chest and asked "why?" What do you suppose the scorpion's answer was?"

Nex smiled humorlessly. "I imagine something along the lines of "you knew what I was, and should have feared me as you would have if I had never spoken."

Janis snorted. "Don't be absurd . . . it was a talking scorpion. You ever seen one of those before?" Nex could only shake his head. "So how could _anyone_ know what it was? No, what the scorpion said was this. "You should have been suspicious the moment you heard me talk, for such a thing is unnatural, and you should shun unnatural things."

"As an undead with memories of its past life, free of the Lich King's control, is unnatural?"

"All undead are unnatural and should be shunned." The monk rose smoothly to his feet and fell back into his forms.

"If you attack Havel or his companions you will be tried for murder," Nex warned.

"Do you misunderstand the meaning of the word "shun?" Janis shot back.

Nex considered saying more, then shrugged and turned away. He supposed it would have to do, for now. Asking men to endure the presence of undead was one thing. Expecting them to be happy about it was another.

As he took his first step away his left leg buckled, and he stumbled and nearly fell. For a moment it seemed almost too much effort to continue on, when he could simply sink to the ground right here and rest.

"Are you well?" the monk asked behind him.

Gritting his teeth, he straightened. "Nothing a regenerative trance won't cure."

The monk's tone warmed. "Oh, you practice meditation? It brings such complete peace, doesn't it?"

He would have laughed if he hadn't been so weary. Instead he continued his slow, weary walk to the farmstead.

"Oy!" he heard someone call from somewhere ahead. Blackfinger. "About time you got back. Have a nice stroll while we were arranging your army for you? Don't you think you should be with your soldiers?"

Nex slowed to a stop, swaying, and turned his head. "This question again?"

The big veteran hesitated, confused. "I've never asked it before."

"_You_ haven't." Elves or humans, he supposed an army was an army. Nex continued on, into the nearest building and to an unoccupied closet, where he slumped down and let darkness take him.

. . . . .

"There, sir."

Marbrand glanced into the room, staring at the thrashing young man whose face stretched in a rictus of terror. "And he's been like this for over an hour?"

Kyle flushed. "I just heard noises before. It was only when I came back around that I looked in. What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know. He looks as if Medivh's own torment is upon him."

The young man snorted. "I haven't heard anyone use that name for a curse since I was a child."

"Aye?" Unsurprising. New heroes had risen to take the place of the old, and new traitors and cowards and destroyers as well. "I imagine people curse Arthas these days."

Kyle responded by spitting off to the side. "Should I fetch Lady Olivia?"

"Go."

Marbrand carefully entered the room, wondering if it was wise. He'd seen the destructive force Lord Nex could unleash, and he looked so panicked now that he might turn on Marbrand without thinking. Or in wrath. But at the same time the boy's thrashing, the pain in his expression, suggested he might be having some sort of fit. "My Lord?" he asked softly. No change, save maybe the youth's efforts to escape an invisible threat became more frantic.

Seeing nothing else for it, Marbrand carefully leaned forward and rested his hand on Nex's shoulder, shaking lightly. "Lord Nex," he said firmly.

The young lord immediately went still beneath him, head cocked slightly to one side. "Marbrand," he rasped. "Is this important?"

"Sir, you were in distress. Are you prone to convulsions?"

Before Nex could answer Kyle returned with Lady Olivia in tow. The woman took one look at Nex's sweat-slicked skin and healing Light suffused her hands. "Step away, Sir," she said, starting forward.

"No," Nex snapped, voice sounding more calm now. "I have no need for you, Olivia. Be on your way. All of you . . . I only need rest."

"That din't look like rest," Kyle said.

Nex brushed aside Marbrand's hand and sat up. "I said leave."

Kyle was quick to obey, and Olivia only looked at him thoughtfully before doing the same. But Marbrand remained. Nex may have been impatient, but he still looked weak, wan in a way, and drained from his restless "rest".

Perhaps he deserved such nightmares, given his heritage.

"Well, Marbrand?"

Marbrand took a breath. "If I may ask, my Lord, why are you here?"

Nex didn't lift his head. "I have little need for sleep, but when I do I prefer not to be interrupted."

Marbrand grimaced. If the youth wasn't interested in receiving help then he had no desire to pry any further. "Your pardon, I meant in a broader sense."

"Oh?" The young lord refused to face his way.

"Few men willingly embark on an expedition such as this unless driven to it. I and my men certainly wouldn't have, nor our recruits had we not waved the banner and promised them vengeance for their loved ones."

For a time he thought Nex wouldn't answer before the young lord finally spoke. "I need no reason to fight the Scourge. It brings me great enjoyment."

"Ah, so you're one of those looking for vengeance. But the Scourge's tendrils cannot have reached into Azeroth, where you claim lands."

Nex stiffened at the word "claim", though Marbrand hadn't meant it as an accusation; any lord's lands was his by claim. "I've had almost no contact with the Scourge. My quarrel is with the ones who hold Ner'zhul's strings."

Marbrand nodded in sudden realization. That did make far more sense, given this warlock's nature. "The Burning Legion. Your rivals."

For the first time he had ever seen, a look of pure rage crossed over the young lord's face. He stood fluidly and with astonishing speed. "Take care for your words, knight. I exist to destroy the demonic army. Should any power seek to take its place my enmity for it will be just as great."

"Any power but your own?"

For a moment he feared he'd gone too far, but instead Nex became impassive, cold. "You're free to question my motives as you like, but not where the Burning Legion is concerned."

"You'll forgive me if I keep my doubts on that score."

The young warlock fully turned to face him, and Marbrand stiffened as if behind that blindfold of fine black cloth eyes that weren't there blazed malevolently. "You misunderstand me, Marbrand. Question my motives as you like, but never again concerning the Burning Legion, or we will have a problem, you and I."

Yes, he had misunderstood. It was hard to read extreme emotion without being able to see a man's eyes, but in that moment he could feel, without doubt, the pure hatred this young man felt for the Burning Legion. His fear of the warlock's power notwithstanding, he wouldn't question Nex about this again. "Your pardon, my Lord."

"You're more belligerent than usual, Sir Marbrand. Care to tell me why?"

Marbrand looked away, but he wasn't one to avoid issues. "I heard the undead priest. You're of the Aran family. Kin to the traitor Medivh."

Although Marbrand couldn't see his expression, the young man's voice didn't change. "Yes. His great-nephew."

Marbrand found his hand on his sword, and bitterness was welling up inside him, as well as the memory of a pain he could never forget. "I should've known from the first. Darkness and deceit runs in that family. I've failed my men, swearing them to the likes of you."

Nex remained motionless at the periphery of his vision. "You have better reason to hate Medivh than most, so it's understandable your judgment is clouded on this issue."

"My judgment is clear, warlock. The Aran line is tainted."

"Is it? Before Medivh the Arans were among the most respected and loyal of families in Azeroth. They were entrusted with the care of the ancient magical fortress, Karazhan, tasked with guarding its secrets and preventing the danger it represented from being unleashed upon the world. Is an entire family to be tainted by the actions of one man? Then you'll find every great house in disgrace."

"For these actions, yes," Marbrand growled. "For the greatest betrayal in Azeroth's history, yes."

The young lord laughed bitterly. "Noble Daran Marbrand, honorable knight of Azeroth, who condemns a man for deeds done before he was even born, by a man he's never met. You think I haven't suffered for Medivh's crimes as much as anyone? More than you, even? Do you notice I speak of the Aran family as if I were not a part of it, as I dearly wish I were not?"

Marbrand refused to be moved. "The Aran family was quick enough to throw themselves behind Medivh rather than their own people. I slew more than a few. I know the potential for villainy is in you, boy. You've followed Medivh's path far more closely than the path of Nielas or Hadran or Anisad."

"Then I suppose it's a good thing I'm going off to die in Northrend." Nex abruptly turned and strode out of the room.

Marbrand hesitated for a moment to let the young man get well away, then exited as well. He found Blackfinger leading a bunch of recruits in scouring weapons taken from the undead clean of rust. A short distance away Jocal was cursing up a storm as he tried to show other recruits how to properly sharpen a blade.

"Damnit!" the Squire was shouting, "aren't you all farmers? Don't you all have grindstones in your barns for your sickles and scythes? Who the hell doesn't know how to give edge to a blade?"

Marbrand walked over to Blackfinger. "Where's Olivia?"

The big man glanced over. "Came out of there and went straight towards the little stream northeast of here. Wouldn't let anyone accompany her." He shook his head. "Should't have done that. The Scourge come out more often at night."

"I'll fetch her." Marbrand wandered into the deepening dusk, letting the trickle of water guide him. Soon enough he slowed, seeing a figure seated in ladylike fashion on a rock with her head tilted down to look at the water, bathed by the glow of a full moon.

The moonlight gleamed softly on her long auburn hair, glinting silver off the gray liberally streaking it. In her build she was more matronly than slender, although by no means overweight, showing the sturdy strength of a strenuous life. The silk robes she wore molded to her curves generously, so much so that Marbrand felt himself responding and looked away quickly, shamed at his own lack of control.

It was at this moment, of course, that she became aware of him. "Sir Marbrand," she said, standing gracefully. "I did not see you there."

Perhaps he only imagined the slight accusation in her tone, as if suggesting he'd been holding back and devouring her with his eyes while she was vulnerable in her ignorance of his presence. He was so flustered that his bow was hurried. "My Lady, I hope I'm not intruding. I wanted to apologize for calling for you, only to have you sent away again."

As if understanding his embarrassment and being gracious in her judgment she smiled warmly. "I am glad to help you as I may, Sir. Do I not owe my life to you?"

"It was my honor to serve," he said. She made no reply aside from expectant silence, so he continued, feeling like an awkward boy caught sneaking into a lady's privy chamber. "I overheard you speak to Lord Nex of your imprisonment with the Scarlet Crusade, my Lady. I am sorry you were forced to suffer that."

She smiled, and it was a gentle smile as every other aspect of her character was gentle. "There is no need to burden yourself imagining any pains I may have suffered."

Marbrand felt some unknown burden ease from his heart. "Then you were not . . . ah, mistreated?"

"Raped, you mean?" she asked bluntly.

Marbrand flinched, eyes darting away from her at the very thought. "I-I didn't-"

She laughed softly, sadness mingled with pain. "No, Sir Marbrand. Perhaps were I ten years younger I may have been. The Scarlet Crusade is fanatical in looking towards the future, and no woman of childbearing years is exempted from producing offspring. Even the soldiers. But I'm far too old and decrepit for such things, not to mention useful. They desired my healing abilities."

"You do not look old to me," Marbrand said. "I imagine you still have many childbearing years ahead of you." Immediately he felt embarrassed at his temerity.

But her only answer was another smile. "Which is not to say I'm not glad to be here with you, even if our destination is Northrend."

Marbrand felt an unaccountable surge of pleasure at her words, although there was no doubt she said "you" in reference to his entire army, not him personally. "I'm pleased we were able to offer whatever assistance we might, my Lady."

She inclined her head. "Such courtesy as you display has fallen by the wayside in the younger generation produced by these troubled times. I am pleased true manners are not entirely forgotten."

Marbrand smiled wanly. "As with you, my Lady. The ability to set lonely old veterans at ease is one I've missed."

"At ease enough to speak your purpose plainly?"

Marbrand felt a flush creeping up his neck, as much for being called out to his obvious ulterior motives as because of the gentle chiding in her tone. "I'm glad your experience with the Scarlet Crusaders wasn't so terrible. I would not make common cause with such rabid dogs, but our need is great and from all I've heard the only thing the Scarlet Crusaders despise more than the living is the Scourge. You suggested some were tempted to join us, did you not? They could be valuable allies in the conflict to come."

The auburn-haired cleric shook her head sadly, sending a wave of hair splashing over her warm features. "Perhaps were we in a different world, Sir Marbrand. But I spoke of the future Scarlet Crusade looks for. They understand that the Scourge thrives on devouring those who come at them unprepared. They've suffered numerous attacks where they took heavy losses and then were obliged to destroy their own dead coming at them, and they won't make make the mistake of coming against the Scourge unprepared again. When finally they strike, the Scarlet Crusade means every one of their people to be a soldier of such high caliber that they will cut through the undead with zero losses. Only by such victories can they hope to defeat the Lich King."

"They will not take the risk, not even for the hope of destroying the Frozen Throne tomorrow? You don't know the power of those who lead us."

She looked at him with melting blue eyes. "It doesn't matter. They would not take that opportunity if it was offered by strangers. They will win by their own merit or not at all."

"From what Lord Nex has told me of them, it is no more than I'd expect. Still, it was worth exploring."

"As you say," she said. A silence fell, and he found himself matching her gaze with surprising intensity. Something in his eyes must have spoken too eloquently, for her gaze shied away from his. "Excuse me, Sir. I am weary."

Marbrand immediately bowed. "Of course, my Lady. I apologize for disturbing you."

She gave her own graceful curtsy and turned, moving quickly back towards her tent. And for all his manners and sense of honor Marbrand couldn't help but follow her with his eyes, taking in the way the silk clung to soft curves. It was shameful to so openly admire the beauty of a virtuous woman, but perhaps a decade of exile had left Marbrand rougher and less refined than he'd once been.

He shook his head harshly, looking away. Best to not entertain such thoughts. Had Nex not chided him only this morning about lack of discipline? How could he hope for his men to control themselves when he was so weak?

It wasn't fair to her in any case. He wasn't responding based on any of her own virtues, although from his brief time with her she seemed to be lacking few, but from his own years spent never even seeing a woman. It was easy to look at most of the female recruits and curtail any attraction, since most were either obviously too young or so worn down by hardship that their natural beauty had been scoured away. Olivia was simply the first lovely, mature woman he'd seen in over a decade.

It was almost a relief, not to have to worry about thinking about her that way. He regretted lost opportunities, but at the same time he had no desire to complicate matters when matters were already complicated enough.


	11. To the Coast

Chapter Ten

To the Coast

All the camp was still when Nex came out of his regenerative trance. It had taken longer than it should have to gain its full effect since he was disturbed so soon after entering it, and his dreams had been no better for the interruption; Marbrand had his flames to haunt him, but the Aran name had plenty of horrors for Nex to relive as well.

Nex moved through the rooms of the house, slipping past sleeping forms, and out into the moonlight. As he'd expected, he was no longer alone in the night; now others in the camp needed as little sleep as he. The undead had formed a distinct camp of their own at the top of the hill to the south. It emitted an eerie glow, but unlike the usual sickly green or icy blue the glow was an unusual yellow, like sunlight filtered through urine. Turning, he made for that glow.

He probably should have dealt with this issue sooner, but perhaps it was better this way. If the undead had proved treacherous there were others in the camp who could have dealt with them, and giving them time before placing his bonds on them gave them time to prove they were interested in remaining a part of this endeavor. He had no way to be certain if the normal methods of binding and controlling undead, similar in their way to binding demons, would work on these free-willed Forsaken, and his expertise in necromancy and arts related to it was virtually nonexistent, but now was as good a time as any to test such things.

Much of the glow turned out to come from Ithelia, still bound by Olivia's holy spells. Shackling undead was a higher order of magic, and it was impressive the cleric had that ability. It would probably prove useful in the time to come. The holy energy took the form of chains wrapped all about the spectral figure, their usual bright glow dimmed and twisted by contact with her essence. Nex walked over to her and with a wave of his hand broke the spell. Somewhere down in the camp a woman cried out, but Nex ignored it; Olivia would get back to sleep eventually, and Ithelia wasn't in Imelda's league when it came to raw power, likely because she hadn't yet had an opportunity to reclaim her body. Or a body.

Ithelia turned a cool glance on him. In appearance she resembled a high elf maiden, clothes a sad tatter over flawless translucent skin. Her features were haunting, full of pain and sadness and more than a little rage. "Have you given my offer some thought, banshee?" he asked.

"You delude yourself if you think it was anything but an ultimatum." Nex made no response to that other than to regard her silently, and after a moment she shifted. He could tell she'd phased out of normal human sight, which seemed to him to be answer enough. She started to drift away down the hill and Nex stretched out his hand, ropes of power whipping out to snap around her form, easily visible to his second sight. The banshee gave a cry of surprise as she found herself floating back towards him.

Olivia wasn't the only one who could shackle undead, although his spell was anything but holy. "I'll take that as a no. Binding you to my will would destroy most of your usefulness, which leaves me, once again, with the choice of securing either your willful obedience or your demise."

Her spectral features writhed, for a moment twisting into something hideous and barely human. "You would but free me from torment."

Nex sighed. "I like to think of myself as a pragmatist. Needless destruction is needless waste. Perhaps Havel and Bobbulus will chafe at me letting you go while requiring them to stay. It's something they'll have to get used to."

Her features calmed, became calculating. "You would let me go?"

"You offered to be an emissary to your Dark Lady. Relay to her the message that if she will not aid us in this fight then she would do well to remember she faces true enemies in her aims to build a nation of undead. It would be a waste of her resources to trouble us, and I guarantee you she would bleed for it."

Ithelia smiled. "We're not fools, we know who our enemies are. Death to the Scourge."

Nex wasn't a fool either. Like any sentient beings, the undead would consider anything not like them to be the enemy. And given their nature they would likely be ruthless in their actions. But he merely wanted to secure the safe passage of his people north, without interference.

"Will you free me, now?"

"Of course not." He ignored the rage that twisted her features. "First I'll bind you to your oath that you'll deliver my message as I've given it."

"Very well. Prepare your ritual."

Nex nodded and knelt on the ground beneath her, swiftly gouging out a few runes in the dirt. This would provide a good opportunity to see how binding his oaths were with these Forsaken. The fact that Havel had been bound to the coven of warlocks in Stormwind was a good sign, suggesting that there wasn't too much to it. Holding her within the circle he bound the oaths she made into her in three different ways so that they would release upon completion of her task. Then he loosed her shackles. "I changed my mind. You can do as you please, without needing to deliver my message."

Ithelia's essence pulsed as the oaths Nex had bound into her warred with the rebellious impulses his words had caused within her. She gave a shivering cry of frustration as they held. "The Dark Lady will hear of this," she hissed.

"That's the point."

The banshee immediately turned and began drifting south, in accordance with her geas. Nex turned to face the other two undead.

They'd been watching the entire thing from near where Havel's pack undead stood stupidly wearing packs of alchemy reagents on their backs. From the looks of it when Nex arrived Havel had been preparing some sort of salve to strengthen Bobbulus's tearing skin and keep the rotting suet from sliding out. "Maybe you should make Bobbulus thin, if you're going to be tinkering with him anyway."

The corpulent undead glared daggers at him, mouth writhing around tongueless words. Havel cackled and sneered at the overweight undead with his sagging flesh. "You know, I had a preference for men in life. You could say I was practically a slave to the joys of masculine flesh. Now, however, my requisite parts have rotted away, and even if they hadn't the blood which would have made them tumescent is dust. It's oddly freeing, not to have to put up with a man's violent alpha male bullshit simply because I want to get him naked."

Bobbulus growled and sent a wave of ice flowing towards him, and Havel danced across it merrily, levitating just above the worst of it. "This is the sort of irrationality I'm talking about, my dear. I call you horrible names and treat you like shit, and you react all out of proportion and try to kill me. A bigger man would simply insult me back, and there's no one bigger than you."

"Enough of this," Nex said before the fat undead could try anything more extreme. "You'll swear your service to me now. Bob will write his oaths as he cannot speak."

"But what about the ever-so-important messages you wish me to send to Stormwind?" Havel asked, pulling desiccated lips away from yellow teeth. "What's good for the goose is good for the gander."

"There's no possible way I could have held Ithelia to my service without wasting so much of my concentration and energy that whatever gains having her would've provided would be useless. And unlike you, I was reluctant to destroy her for fear of angering her mistress. Now swear, and when our mission is complete you are free."

"A tempting offer. The question begs, though . . . what kind of fool would actually accept it?"

Nex bared his own long canines. "You're looking at such a fool. As you say, what's good for the goose."

Havel cackled again. "Very well, human. I don't dislike you quite as much as I thought I did, in spite of poor Jerel's death. He was a bit of an asshole anyway, Twilight's Hammer fool. I had my suspicions about who he actually served." The undead walked over to stand in Nex's circle. "I will accompany you to the Frozen Throne, wield my power to best effect for our purpose, and do no harm to any of our allies save in self-defense."

Nex activated the circle to make the oaths binding. "Again. And this time you'll actually mean it."

Once Havel had given his oaths-bound five times rather than the three he'd used with Ithelia-Nex had Bobbulus get in the circle and scrape his oaths in the dirt. Undeath had made the fat creature no less awkward in crouching and shifting about, and all the while the mage glared daggers at him for the humiliation.

When it was done Havel moved back over to his pack undead. "So, what now?"

Nex followed, Bobbulus a step behind. "Now let's chat."

Havel cackled. Nex was starting to find the sound annoying. "What would you like to talk about, fellow dweller in the shadows? The fact that you've apparently done the impossible and gouged out your own eyes without being torn apart by extradimensional beings? See anything interesting in these haunted lands?"

"You don't want to know. And I have no interest in talking about it. "Let's talk instead about gunpowder. The dwarves need it, and you're an alchemist. Can you make it?"

The undead sniffed, making an unpleasantly rustling sound. "The manufacture of gunpowder barely qualifies as alchemy. In fact it's far beneath my talents."

Nex curled his lip. "You seem awfully haughty about your trade. Alchemy. A poor man's magic."

"I beg your pardon, boy, but it is in fact rather expensive."

With a low laugh Nex touched his forehead. "Which is to say a rich man's magic, favored by those poor in actual magical talent."

The undead scowled. "Yes, well. We can't all be gifted from birth with the lineage of the Aran family's power."

Nex didn't want to talk about that either, especially not after his confrontation with Marbrand and his unpleasant waking nightmares. "Can you do it or not?"

"Oh, I could easily _do_ it. Assuming you have a few tons of bird shit, several dozen cords of wood, and a hot spring or lava flow nearby, or at the least an area of salt domes with fossil deposits. That and a few weeks in which to work. Now if you could get me saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur properly refined and in bulk the process would be much quicker, but then again if you could find those you'd probably have an easier time finding gunpowder itself."

"Thanks for the chemistry lesson, Professor Havel. You're telling me you can't do it?"

"I'm telling you that by the time I managed to do it properly with my current lack of experience you'd probably already be in Northrend wishing for something a bit more substantial than gunpowder to aid you." Havel began rummaging around in his packs. "Anything else? I'm very busy."

"Antidotes to this mold that's causing illness. Unless of course you want to keep healing people." Nex had barely finished speaking before Havel was pulling jars out of his pack and handing them over. Nex looked at him with surprise.

"I spent half the day doing just that, and thought I'd preclude such obvious wastes of my time. Give these to that red bitch Olivia with my regards. Anything else?"

Nex tucked the unguent into his pocket portal, noting the way Havel's eyes snagged on it and didn't look away until he'd closed it. "My knowledge of alchemy is limited. I trust you'll find ways to use it to our benefit?"

"Of course. I'm the soul of helpfulness."

"You have a soul?" Havel simply stared at him. "All right, then. Let's talk about you taking samples off several different types of undead after the battle. I fail to think of any good use you could put such reagents to."

"That's because, as you yourself said, you know nothing of alchemy." It was Nex's turn to simply stare, and the undead shrugged. "I'm deeply interested in how the Plague works." He again began poring over his grisly collection of samples. "A disease that spreads swiftly, can be carried in grain, kills the infected in only a few hours and plants the seed of undeath in them. Such a disease shouldn't be possible."

"It's magical in origin."

Havel sneered at him. "Oh yes, it doesn't have to work like natural diseases or follow the laws of nature because it's _unnatural_ and _magical_. If that were the case you'd need a Cultist going around to every single person and directly infecting them. Or you'd need to create an object of power to hold the spell matrix which would generate the Plague, such as the Plague cauldrons the Scourge now employs. And such devices are easy to detect and identify by their magical signature. But that original Plague _acted_ like a natural disease, without any overt signature one sensitive to magic could detect."

Nex rubbed his chin, somewhat shaken. He'd never really given too much thought into the Plague's origins or how it could've been created. That it _had_ been created and it worked as intended fooled him into thinking its history was unimportant. As far as he knew that was the general belief shared by everyone in the Eastern Kingdoms, and no one had ever looked more closely at it.

Of course there was a good reason for that, since most were more occupied with simply _surviving_ it, and running experiments on a disease that swiftly kills you then turns you undead is less than appealing. Being undead already Havel was actually an ideal person to perform those tests, as long as the Plague continued to affect only the living. But how had he come to be interested in beginning such tests in the first place?

And suddenly he knew. A wild guess, but one he instinctively knew was correct. Havel studied it in death because he was one of the few tasked to study it in life. "You were one of the priests of Quel'thalas," he said. "The ones sent to try to heal the Plague."

Havel's lips twisted into a horrifying expression that might have been a smile, as he lifted fingers rotted away to the bone for the first two knuckles to tap at the holes where his ears used to be. "I was awfully proud of them. Never did see a longer, pointier pair."

"I assumed you were human."

The undead laughed. Not cackled but actually laughed, a sound that sent ice up his spine. "An easy assumption to make, considering I was in Stormwind and undead lack many of the defining racial features."

"I thought those priests all joined up with Arthas and went to die in Northrend."

Havel's smile vanished. "Oh I did," he hissed. "The Plague was spreading unchecked on the very borders of our own lands, and the human lords were too busy squabbling about _taxes _to aid their own people. King Anasterian sent us down to provide aid, not only in the protection of Quel'thalas but for the sake of our suffering allies. And along comes Arthas Menethil and his army, not interested in helping his people at all. Instead he's hunting down necromancers and Cultists and slaughtering his own people. Typical human response, to seek the guilty before ever even thinking of bringing comfort to the victim. And when he came across us we were all-but drafted into his forces. He didn't go so far as to put a sword across Lady Vanadiel's neck, but it was close."

"How did you come to be undead?"

"I was one of the first to fall on Northrend's shores, but one of the last to rise again. I had faith the Light would protect me from that end. But then I rose, alone save for my brethren, but alone of them I was strong enough to resist the Lich King's bonds. I was fortunate, however, for the Lich King's whole attention was on his traitor prince and the trap he'd prepared for him. I had no more of his attention than a man dangling his fingers down to desultorily tease a kitten, even as his real concentration is upon the feast before him that he's intent on greedily consuming."

Nex blew out a breath. "Still, you wrestled with the Lich King and won."

The priest spat, a gesture that would've been more convincing if anything had come out. "I kicked a titan then ran away. I can never truly break the ties of his control, for they're sealed to my own undeath, but I've put my own seals over them, so powerful that I doubt even the Lich King's direct effort could capture me again."

That was certainly something Nex was going to have to look into. But later. "So there you were, the only free undead in Northrend."

"Needless to say I buggered off before the other Scourge could realize I was autonomous. I took one of the rowboats off a ship and turned south towards home."

Nex arched an eyebrow. "I doubt that went well."

"Oh no, the first storm and I was in the drink. But I don't breathe and I don't tire, so I swam, until I grew so waterlogged that I sank and walked along the ocean's floor. I ran into monstrous creatures of the deep, and my power was barely sufficient to fend their attacks. I saw wonders I've no interest in sharing with the likes of you, and skirted night elf ruins and vast naga colonies that make Stormwind City look like a pathetic little village in Redridge. Speaking of which, the naga are mobilizing. I felt the power your master exerted to stir them from the deep, even though I was at its periphery."

Nex was surprised. "You recognized it?"

The priest grinned another ghastly grin. "I can see the teat of power you suckle on, human. And that power decided to take a stick to the sleepers of the deep in search of allies. But he's vastly underestimated the naga; I doubt it'll be long before every coast, river, and lake has the slithery bastards mucking along them."

"Good thing they're on our side."

Havel grimaced. "For now. Anyway it's hard to tell directions in the deep, and the oceans are far larger than any landmass. I somehow skirted the Eastern Kingdoms to the west, so confused that I found myself nearly in sight of the Maelstrom before I realized I was hopelessly lost. I recalled enough of maps to know that damnable whirlpool is roughly centered between Kalimdor and Eastern Kingdoms, so I exerted all my efforts to swimming up to the surface long enough to see which way was east. At that point I decided I didn't want to try to sneak my way around the naga again, so I levitated on the water's surface and ran as fast as I could. I managed to keep it up for about a day before my power gave out, but within maybe another week I washed up on the shores of Westfall."

Nex tried not to show his impatience. It was fascinating to hear of Northrend, and in its way the Maelstrom and the actions of the naga were useful. But when had this conversation turned into a travel log? "I believe we were speaking of the Plague. Can it be cured?"

"Science will always provide an answer, eventually."

"Gnomes would probably have a problem with you calling alchemy a science."

"Gnomes!" Havel shouted, not trying to hide his scorn. "You know what all their grand machines are? A bunch of giant spinny gears and gizmos that don't do anything but look impressive. If you're lucky they'll do a giant scale model of Azeroth's planetary system."

"I'm not particularly fond of gnomes, but to be fair I've seen them accomplish some impressive things."

"But not with the goddamn spindly arms spinning this way and that! Half their best work is so small you could fit it in your pocket. But who looks at a death ray the size of a loaf of bread and goes "ooh" and "aah"? They're compensating, I tell you! That's why they live inside houses made of gears with elevators and pneumatic doors when stairs and a doorknob would be far more practical!"

"Compensating for what?"

The undead sniffed, a disturbing gesture with only half a nose. "I'm not going to dignify that with a response."

"So it can't be cured?"

"Oh believe me, when I find a cure you'll know. I'll need to keep gathering samples, of course, without you whimpering like a child with the flu every time I start taking flesh off dead things."

"Fair enough." Nex turned to Bobbulus. "Nice talking to you."

The fat undead glared murder at him as he walked away.

. . . . .

Marbrand was in a foul mood.

Understandable, really. After almost fifteen years working with skilled, disciplined, fearless veterans, he'd forgotten how horribly frustrating it was trying to train raw recruits. By the Light, they were _worse_ than useless! He'd been working them since first light and it was two hours past dawn now, and if anything they looked to have grown in incompetence.

After he couldn't stand watching their flailing efforts to spar for another instant he interrupted them. Formation and marching in ranks had been just as ludicrous, so he decided to take a break and work on theory for a bit.

"How many of you are veterans?" A few timid hands raised among the recruits. "How many of you have received some sort of formal training, or at least been in a fight." More hands, quite a few more, and people were starting to look more confident. "How many of you think you could kill a man?" A few confused stares, and some of the hands lowered, while others raised. "All right, now for the only question that really matters. How many of you have fought undead?" In scant moments there were only a scattering of hands still raised. "Then you're all fucking recruits, no matter how many battles you've been in."

"Here now," one of the recruits complained, a lean, grizzled man with a queer bulge along one forearm that might've been a badly set break. "I were at the internment camps. I guarded them green savages for years, I did, and fought with the others when they escaped. I'm no fool new-come to the sword."

Marbrand turned to face the man. "I see your arm was broken. In battle?" The man nodded, fiercely proud. "Did you take that wound so you could kill an enemy?"

The veteran jailer frowned. "Well no. But I stuck the brute what broke it, you can be sure o' that."

"And if you had to take a wound to kill your enemy? Push aside his attack with your arm so you could pierce him through the heart, taking a deep gash in the process and maybe losing fingers, would you do it?"

The man paused. "Well maybe. If it were the only way, like."

"Brave. It takes courage to willingly suffer pain to see your enemy dead." Marbrand turned away from the man in cold dismissal and addressed the group once more. "And where we're going, such courage will be your death. Listen to me well, recruits! Fighting undead is not like fighting living enemies. You do not fight to kill them, you fight to destroy them, and there is a big difference there. It's not so easy, nor so safe."

"How's that, then?" the same veteran demanded, somewhat sullenly. He obviously hadn't liked being mocked. "I heared soldiers say undeads're much slower than other enemies, and not so strong usually. I'd fight some scrawny skeleton over a full-grown orc any day."

"Would you? With that?" Marbrand gestured to the short sword and dirk the man wore at either hip. "I said listen well, not waste your thought figuring how I'm wrong. Undead don't flinch from an attack. They don't slow down when you hit them. You can't knock them unconscious, you can't bleed them slow. Arrows are nearly useless, unless you can shatter the skull and even then it's not always enough. Same with spears, knives, anything which pierces rather than tears, cuts, or crushes. It will pass right through an undead, and they'll not hesitate to continue forward to wrap bony fingers around your throat. And if you some how tear their hands away they'll bring half your neck with them and you'll die in a pool of blood.

"You don't trade blows with an undead. You don't try to tire an undead. You can't wound them. They do not slow, they do not weaken. You can tear an undead's arms and legs off and those arms and legs will scrabble across the ground after you, tripping you up. And they have other weapons as well. Some are diseased, with the plague of undeath or with more common plagues and pestilences, but still vile. Some will poison you, some will curse you, some will fill your bones with cold very time you land a blow, shivering ice traveling up your arm to numb you and slow you until you can barely lift your weapon.

"Yes, they can be slow. Yes, they are not usually as strong as a man. And some are so desiccated that they weigh next to nothing, so you can fling them about. You must learn to take advantage of those weaknesses. You must learn to fight as a group, to make every blow count. You must learn how to protect yourself, how to stay mobile against them. When to stand your ground, when to fall back, when to run, when to flank."

Marbrand paused, and the recruits watched him in perfect silence, giving him their complete attention. Most were pale, and a few looked sickly. Even the internment camp jailer had lost his belligerence. When he finally spoke his words were soft. "But most of all you must be ready to control your fear. For I assure you, my friends, against this foe you will know terror. If you let it unman you, you will die in the cold north. If you let it spur you to reckless courage, you will be torn apart by fearless undead. Only through iron discipline and control will you survive this campaign."

Nex had been standing off to one side, watching the training with no expression. Now he stepped forward, cutting in. "And you will survive. I mean to see every man come home if such a thing is possible. So train hard, listen close to the experience of Sir Marbrand, and keep your courage close about you. The only way through this battle and humanity's salvation is forward, to Icecrown Glacier and the destruction of the Frozen Throne." He turned to Marbrand and inclined his head. "I leave them to you."

"As you say, my Lord." Marbrand hoped the youth would leave it at that. Not a very rousing speech, but he'd heard worse.

Nex started to walk away, then stopped as if a thought had just occurred to him and turned back. "Oh. I wouldn't dream of accusing you brave volunteers of cowardice or disloyalty, but you should be aware that deserters will die by slow hanging. Train well, recruits."

Marbrand cursed to himself. Kicking men when their morale was low wasn't going to improve it any, and Nex's threat was unnecessary in any case; everyone knew the cost of desertion. They'd seen it yesterday, or heard of it from those who had. All the young lord had accomplished with that parting shot was to make an ass of himself and make his soldiers hate and fear him where they should at least respect him. He glared daggers at the youth then flinched when, though Nex's back was turned, he made a gesture for Marbrand to follow him.

It never did to forget that the man didn't have eyes on the back of his head: he had something better. "Blackfinger, keep them working," he snapped, marching after Nex.

Nex led Marbrand a short distance away from the drilling men. "This is a somewhat delicate subject."

"Oh, you mean delicate like telling a bunch of frightened recruits you'll kill them if they lose courage?"

Nex ignored the jibe. "I just wanted to be certain of a few things." The young lord motioned over to where Blackfinger was working with Geana, unusually familiar in helping her find the right stance and swing her sword. "Blackfinger's showing little shyness with the recruits."

"What of it?"

"He's already bedded that one."

Marbrand started. "How did you-" he cut off, looking at the blindfold covering Nex's eyes. Of course. He could probably see _through_ clothing, the pervert.

Nex continued resolutely. "Your men have been trapped on Outland for a decade, and armies didn't start traditionally recruiting women until a few years ago, when the need began growing dire. Your men aren't used to fighting alongside women."

Marbrand spat. "I see. You're worried the Sons of Lothar are going to rape the female recruits. So now we're not only cowards and deserters but abusers of women as well."

"Nothing quite that drastic," Nex said, not very convincingly; he was probably thinking that these men hadn't even _seen_ a woman for over a decade. "I know the nature of men, particularly soldiers. Willing or no, our recruits can't march into the glaciers of Northrend with swollen bellies."

Marbrand spent half a minute working to contain his anger. "You know the nature of men," he said flatly. "Boy, I've been leading soldiers longer than you've been alive. I know how to keep them in line."

Nex nodded. "Then no more need be said." Without another word he turned and walked back to where the officers were gathered.

"You should learn when _less_ need be said!" Marbrand shouted after him.

In an even worse temper after that inspiring chat, he went in search of the group of elders leading the refugees to check if they were finally ready to march. One benefit of dragging along so many refugees, at least, was that they had plenty of time to train at their leisure and still keep up with the main body.

Unfortunately Nex didn't see it that way.

Two hours after noon and only five miles on their march, with the main column stopped once again trying to shuffle the supplies from the largest wagon, which had broken its axle, the young lord sought him out.

"I didn't expect it to be good, with refugees, but this is ridiculous."

Marbrand turned away from his inspection of the ruined wagon. There would be a greater burden on the others, now. "There's no help for it. These people were dying of disease and starvation before yesterday, and they're still poor off."

"It doesn't matter. We can't continue at this pace. What about the horses, aren't they helping speed things?"

"They _are_ speeding things."

Nex cursed and turned away, beginning to pace. Marbrand thought it unusual for him to wear his nerves so close to the surface. "We have to abandon them," he said abruptly.

Feeling a sinking in the pit of his stomach, he turned to look down the column. An endless line of suffering humanity, it seemed. "We can't."

"Stormrage will be to the Frozen Throne before we ever make the coast at this rate. Hell, _Arthas_ will be there, and he's been unaccountably delayed in Lordaeron City."

Marbrand frowned. "How do you know that?"

"_Because he hasn't overrun us and slaughtered us all yet!_" Nex snarled, turning to face him. "Let them keep the food, and whatever remedies Havel can work up on short notice. We have to leave them."

"If we leave them here it's as good as killing them."

"Not my problem, Marbrand. They could've gone south and joined up with the Alliance army. It's what that army exists for, to protect and care for them."

"To work them to death and turn their children into whores, you mean."

"And yet you've mercifully led them to within a hundred miles of the main Scourge army," Nex shot back. "We have to turn north off the road, and that means leaving the wagons behind."

Marbrand hesitated, anguished. Their argument had drawn a crowd. Montfere, of course, and the undead Havel, as well as Olivia, who scarcely let the undead stray far from her sight. Falstan and his dwarves were at the back of the line, providing rearguard and aiding with the weakest of the refugees.

Damnit. He knew, for all his callousness, that Nex was right. They were going too slow, and in a situation where speed was critical. But at the same time he had taken on responsibility for these people. The only thing he could think to do was leave some of his men to safeguard them. Nex would be furious about that, of course, complaining that it was their job to _acquire_ soldiers, not leave them behind. But what else could he do?

Unless . . . "You said we're a hundred miles from Lordaeron City?"

"Yes, so?"

"So to the north and east of the city lies the main monastery of the Order of the Silver Hand. We should be making for them anyway to see if we can recruit them to our cause, and even if not then it will provide a safe place to leave the refugees."

Marbrand was dismayed to see Nex go still, while Ilinar and Kyle exchanged unhappy glances. But it was to Olivia that he looked.

The cleric was looking at him sadly. "I would sooner I was not the one to tell you this."

"More bad news?" he said, despairing. Light, not the Silver Hand. What else was there to give men hope on Azeroth?

She shook her head. "You heard me speak of my captors' destination, the Scarlet monastery? The Order of the Silver Hand was nearly wiped out by the Scourge during the Third War. In its absence their monastery has been taken over by the Scarlet Crusade. Many of the remaining elements of the Silver Hand were folded into that group. The Scarlet Monastery _is_ the one you speak of."

Marbrand looked at Olivia helplessly. "I can't believe it," he said flatly. "While Uther the Lightbringer heads that Order it can never fall."

Nex turned his head away, grimacing. "It never did fall, while he headed the Order. During the traitor Arthas Menethil's triumphal return from Northrend he slew his own father, King Terenas, by driving the cursed runeblade Frostmourne through his heart. Lightbringer and the large bulk of his paladins were slain in Andorhol while attempting to keep the urn containing the King's ashes from the traitor's hands. Lightbringer himself perished in single combat with his former pupil."

Around him his men, listening in, began raising their voices in grief and despair. Marbrand himself was too stunned to speak.

He had not known Uther the Lightbringer, but what man hadn't known _of_ that great hero? One of the first of the warrior-priests who came to be known as paladins, a founding member of the Order of the Silver Hand, the first official military branch of the Church of Light. Even before then he'd been a hero of Azeroth, a powerful knight and apprentice cleric to Archbishop Alonsus Faol.

He was one of the great heroes of Marbrand's generation. He hadn't thought to ask after the man before, and now to hear of him so recently dead filled Marbrand with indescribable grief.

Olivia came forward to rest a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, Sir Marbrand," she said quietly. "Many heroes of our generation perished during the Third War. Would that men of equal stature had risen to take their place."

Marbrand did not pull away, but he couldn't meet her sad eyes. "Menethil. When we destroy the Frozen Throne, will he fall as well?"

Nex hesitated. "Perhaps. There is speculation that his cursed runeblade is Ner'zhul's own weapon, somehow pushed from the Frozen Throne and prepared as a trap for him. If so then destroying the Throne may not destroy him, merely diminish his power. He will also need to be slain, Frostmourne destroyed."

"Would it could be me who drives the blade through his black heart." Marbrand stepped away from Olivia, gently disengaging. "We'll turn north, my Lord. We'll double our pace, and at the last extreme leave the refugees in the best situation we can manage."

Nex hesitated, then nodded, seeming resigned. "When we get closer to the coast I'll go on ahead and see what can be found. With proper preparations we can save some time in departing."

Marbrand nodded grimly. Then, working again to organize the unruly mass of humanity in his care, weighing upon his shoulders like a mountain, he turned them all north and west.

. . . . .

Four days later the ebullience of the victory and arrival of his recruits had faded into crushing exhaustion for most of their ludicrous force.

Marbrand had decided, leaving the refugees being out of the question and speeding up an unattainable goal, that the only other alternative was to increase the time spent traveling every day. Training became a thing of the past and, Nex hoped, the future, while every day from first light to total dark was spent trudging forward, the strong helping the weak until all fell into their blankets too weary to stand.

Nex had every woodscrafty man out hunting and gathering, making it their number one priority. He emphasized the need to gather every fur as well as preserve the extra meat; Northrend would be bitterly cold, and many of his "soldiers" were dressed in little better than rags. They began searching for farmhouses to raid for any scrap of spare cloth.

It put an extra burden on the men, making such preparations when it was a miracle if they managed twenty miles in a day. The horses were growing gaunt, overburdened and overused.

Then the scouts returned, speaking of a lake that seemed untouched by Blight or plague. They'd put some distance between themselves and Lordaeron City, as well as going well out of the way he expected the Scourge force to take on their way to the coast, so after some consultation Marbrand agreed to look and see if it was a decent place to leave the refugees. Nex wanted to cheer the decision; he would be truly happy the moment they put their backs to these walking mouths and became an actual army.

Soon they'd formed a small party to ride ahead. Among them were Montfere, Marbrand, Falstan, a handful of Sons of Lothar for escort, and Havel. None of the horses would suffer the undead to ride on its back, so he trotted along beside, tireless and apparently cheerful. He paused along the way to pluck bits from various plants and less pleasant things.

Soon enough they came in sight of the lake, a crystal blue oval surrounded by the first truly green trees Nex had seen since leaving Silverpine Forest. The scouts had approached it more from the east, but their party was coming from the south.

Which was, perhaps, fortunate for them and the scouts both, since if that order had been reversed men would have died.

In the middle of an otherwise harmless-seeming field a blackened hole had been blasted in the ground, earth and ash flung for a dozen feet in every direction.

Nex reined in and frowned at that blackened crater, still looking so fresh the explosion that formed it may have happened days or even hours ago. It looked utterly out of place in this weedy field. When he saw the outriders beginning to make their way for it he whistled sharply and raised his hand to signal a halt. Behind him the rest of the party reined in, and after an uncertain moment the outriders wheeled their horses around and returned.

In moments Marbrand was at his side. "What is it?"

For a moment Nex didn't answer, concentrating hard. With his second sight he sought perception of places human eyes couldn't see. What he saw didn't surprise him overmuch. "A line of buried explosives running along the field northwest to southeast, passing along that crater there. Our way forward is mined."

The scarred knight cursed. "Mined? Why the hell would there be explosives here in the middle of nowhere? Who put them there and who were they trying to keep out?"

"Their construction isn't gnomish. Goblin would be my guess. As to your other questions I couldn't say. Perhaps this was a front for the Alliance army at one point."

"I see no sign of any encampment."

Nex extended his sight past the line of mines. "There don't seem to be any more mines. This looks like a perimeter of some sort, and not a heavily defended one. If we pass through the crater we won't hit any of the mines."

"You're sure?" Nex answered with silence, and the knight grunted. "It'll slow us down, funneling everyone through that narrow space when the main column arrives. Why don't we just detonate a few more mines to make a wider breach?"

Nex laughed derisively. "Yes, let's make sure whoever planted the mines, as well as whoever they're guarding against, both know where we are so they can come running." He started forward, calling over his shoulder. "If you want to scout the lake and satisfy yourself it's still a suitable spot to dump the baggage, I'll go search along the line of mines and make sure there's no unfriendlies nearby." He nudged his horse into a trot for the crater. The creature snorted as it caught the scent of gunpowder, but at Nex's insistence leapt over the crater. Nex immediately turned northwest along the mines in that direction.

He hadn't gone more than a half hour before the line of mines curved back southwest, and then southeast. So it was a perimeter, a giant circle of explosives in the middle of nowhere. Nex crossed back over and headed for the center of that circle.

He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but what he wasn't expecting was an abandoned encampment with a banner flapping desultorily in the breeze. The banner was a purple so dark it was nearly black, with three crossed arrows in the center, the middle arrow broken off at the tip. Atop the arrows was what might have been a porcelain mask broken so that only the right two-thirds of it remained, one eye shut with a scar stretching from eyebrow to cheekbone and the other weeping blood. Or maybe not a mask but a portion of a face.

He also wasn't expecting an observation platform in the center of the camp with enough explosives to level a small town stuffed underneath, covered by an oilcloth tarp. Atop the platform a goblin lay with his hands behind his head, snoring softly.

It was an act, though. Nex could see its ears twitching slightly as he guided his horse forward. After making sure there were no more booby traps. He didn't mind the deception, though; if the goblin wanted to think himself clever he was welcome to. Most of the little green bastards did anyway.

He reined up beside the platform and rapped his knuckles on one of the logs. "Wake up."

The goblin was on his feet in seconds. "Hey how ya doin'? Hal here, pleased ta meetcha."

Nex stared at the goblin flatly. "You speak Thalassian."

Hal grinned that smarmy, unaccountably obnoxious grin all the little green-skinned creatures seemed to be born with. "Course I do. I'm a goblin, ain't I? We speak all the languages of commerce, don't we? Nothing to it."

"A rather impressive feat."

"Impressive for you maybe, pinky. I soak up languages in days, mostly from context, y'know? Ya gotta be born with a brain like this one."

"No doubt. You seem to be using some form of Gutterspeak dialect of that most venerable and prestigious language."

The goblin looked around shiftily. "Yeah, well, I speak the language of the customers I'm working with, right? My last customers weren't exactly highbrow. In fact, you could say they were so far in the dirt they were practically underground. Besides, you're the one who started us off in Thalassian, y'know?"

"Your customers wouldn't happen to be Forsaken, would they?"

More shiftiness. "Maybe. Wouldn't be a problem for ya, would it?"

"Not really. Where are they?"

"Hey, now. I don't talk about my bosses, ya know? Wouldn't want the Banshee Queen irked at me."

"Fine. What's their interest in the lake northeast of here?"

The goblin blinked. "What, outside the perimeter? Why would they care, there's nothing there."

Good enough. If the Forsaken's quarrel was with Arthas the refugees at the lake wouldn't draw anyone's attention. And with any luck one or the other side would get wiped out in the ensuing conflict. His guess was the Forsaken; Arthas and his forces had managed to smash every other army sent against him, and he'd always been outnumbered in the beginning.

Either way, no sense letting a resource go to waste. "I've heard it said goblins would sell their own mother for a gold daraik."

Hal scowled. "Whattaya, crazy?"

"So you do have some loyalty?"

"Nah, buddy, not it at all. A female goblin in her middle years isn't worth quite a daraik. Probably more like three shivnas."

Nex quirked his lips into a smile. A man after his own heart. "You're an engineer, right?"

The goblin tapped his pointy ears. "What gave it away, the ears? The green skin?"

"All right, Hal. How'd you like go in on a high risk, high reward venture?"

"Only good kinda venture, buddy. Whattaya have in mind?"

Nex started to reach into his cloak, then paused and dismounted, putting the horse between himself and the goblin. Always paid to be cautious. He rooted around in his pocket portal and withdrew a bag of the night elf coins. He was starting to run low, and the bulk of what remained was promised to someone or other; maybe he could use his second sight and go treasure hunting if need be.

He pulled out a coin and flipped it at Hal. "Go ahead and satisfy yourself it's pure."

"No such thing, pal." Hal bit into the coin and his eyes widened. "Or maybe I'm an idiot. Purified by magic, is it? Looks night elf."

"You can tell its purity with your teeth?"

"Listen, pinky, how many different ways I hafta tell ya I'm a goblin?"

Goblins. Looked like rats, smelled like rats, stole like rats, and hoarded nice shiny things. Why couldn't he be dealing with ethereals?

Nex pulled out the rest of the bag and shook it. "This is, uh, twenty-six more of the same. This now, and twice again as much when we return. A bonus if you do exceptional work."

"Nice," Hal said, grinning. "Don't usually get folks walking in out of the blue and tripling my pay. Where we going?"

"Icecrown Glacier in Northrend."

Hal's toothy smile didn't falter in the slightest. "Tackling undead, huh? All right, but if you want me ta blow myself up it'll cost you extra. And I'll need a death bonus. Comes standard with any dangerous job."

"Which I assume, for goblins, means any job?"

"Damn straight, pinky. Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

Nex sighed. "Start packing up your explosives. And while we're on the subject, you know anything about making guns?"

"Whoa whoa, pal, you want me ta lift equipment from my old bosses?"

"What the hell do you think I'm paying you for, your good looks?"

Hal never lost his grin. "Nah, if I had those I'd already be charging you extra." He hopped off the platform and started tinkering with his stash, which seemed to include several large rockets. "Send around a few good strong fellas who don't mind risking incidental damage ta help me carry this."

"Incidental damage?"

The goblin became shifty again. "Not saying it was me, but there've been, ya know, incidents."

. . . . .

Nex returned to the Forsaken camp with Marbrand and their Sons of Lothar escort. The rest of the party had returned to the main column to prepare to leave the refugees at the lake. Maybe Marbrand hadn't been overly happy with it, but he'd admitted there wasn't any better options.

Hal came over, grinning, and handed Nex a heavy tube of waxed paper. "Seaforium," he said happily. "Only the best for my rich new boss."

Nex hefted the explosive. "Can you fire it out of a dwarvish mortar?"

The goblin's grin broadened. "Sure thing, boss. You like turning your mortar crew into sappers?"

"I assume you mean it'll explode in the tube and kill everyone?"

"Nah, I can rig it ta work right. Bit of trial and error and we're home free."

"How big a blast radius does this seaforium have?"

"Ten yards or so."

Nex cursed, about to drop the explosive when he realized that would probably be a very, very bad idea. "Let's talk about preventing errors." He motioned over towards Marbrand. "Marbrand over there is commander of the Sons of Lothar. You may work out details with him. Your payment includes all services, so kindly refrain from haggling or grifting."

Hal barked out a laugh. "You asking a goblin not to haggle? Whattaya, trying to be insulting?"

Nex ignored that. "I'm afraid I can't help you when it comes to obtaining necessary materials and reagents. Alchemy is not my strong suit, nor is engineering. I have an alchemist available to help you with anything you might need."

"Nothing less like engineering than alchemy, boss. One's making the most outta cheap stuff like dirt and rocks and shit, the other's goin' around the world finding the most expensive little bits of plants and animals and fancy rocks."

"I can't wait to introduce you to Havel." Nex turned to Marbrand. "We'll want to store his explosives away from camp, just in case. Go ahead and get everyone packing these explosives northeast of here, near where we'll be marching past tomorrow."

"What about you?" Marbrand demanded, glaring at the packed crates suspiciously. A few of his men looked like they were going to be sick; probably didn't like hearing about things like ten yard blast radiuses and storing enough munitions to level a mountain outside of camp, then being asked to carry the things around.

Nex glanced at the goblin. "Hal thinks it should be possible to dig up the mines without detonating them. We're going to retrieve as many as we can."

"You're digging up _mines_?" one of the Sons said. "Blinking Light, suddenly I don't feel so bad about carryin' these crates."


	12. The Castaway

Chapter Eleven

The Castaway

Nex had gone ahead, as he'd said he would, and in spite of the speed the Sons of Lothar managed now that they were no longer burdened with the refugees he was soon far, far ahead, so that not even the scouts saw sign of him.

They came to the coast of the Great Sea six days after leaving the refugees. Marbrand hadn't slacked the brutal marches he set, going from early in the morning to late into the night. Without the refugees and with the horses freed for use they were able to greatly increase their pace, even burdened with supplies as they were and constantly doing their best to gather provisions. Some days they were able to go as much as thirty miles.

The men complained, of course, and with good cause. They were being worn down by the marches, and in ways that weren't beneficial to increasing endurance. Marbrand could only reassure them with the promise that when they were at sea there would be plenty of opportunity to rest. Still morale was steadily dropping, and had they not all been so tired fights would've broken out. Four of the female recruits came to him complaining of harassment growing out of hand, and three men tried to desert. Marbrand gave them a warning of ten lashes, with the promise that the second time they'd be hanged as Nex had promised.

At the coast they found a message from Nex scraped into a tree, telling them to go west. To Marbrand the direction seemed arbitrary, since they had as much chance of finding a port eastward. Perhaps a better chance, since the lands along the coast in that direction had been more densely settled before the Scourge. They passed villages and towns going west, most little better than fishing villages and few with anything bigger than rowboats available. Still those boats that were seaworthy, including a fine fishing sloop, he assigned men to and filled with supplies, having them follow along the coast at best speed. As long as a voyage was their end goal who knew what boats might prove useful.

They also encountered a handful of people living like outlaws in the woods, afraid to come out and risk running into undead. In their poor state a good many elected to join the Sons of Lothar, and the rest Marbrand sent back the way they'd come to join the refugees; theirs would be an easy trail to follow.

Finally, on the tenth day, scouts returned reporting a larger port town a short distance ahead.

"There are signs of Scourge fortifications," Jocal warned. Behind him Ilinar nodded; the boy had taken to ranging with the scouts, although unlike most elves Marbrand had met he showed little interest or proclivity for the bow. "But everyone we saw appeared dead. Unless the undead are playing possum it should be safe."

"Ships?"

The squire shook his head. "We didn't approach close enough to see."

So Marbrand ordered the recruits into a defensive formation and left a few veterans to watch over them, then moved forward cautiously with a score of his men. Falstan came as well with his mortar teams; there had been lots of explosions going on near the camps the dwarves and goblin set near to one another, and it appeared the integration of goblin explosives with a dwarvish lobbing device had gone well.

Jocal's scouts were constantly ahead, providing a screen, and so when one whistled just as they came into sight of the town no one was surprised to see men leaving the buildings and gathering up to approach. A single whistle meant possible friendlies, so everyone was relaxed.

The approaching men wore full plate armor, burnished to an impressive sheen, covered by blue tabards showing the Lion of Azeroth. In the midst of their group came Alvin and the others he had sent as emissaries, and they bore the relaxed posture of companions. Down in the town he could see the banner of the Sons of Lothar flying beside Azeroth's, blue and gold beside blue and silver.

"About time you arrived!" Alvin called. "I was starting to worry."

Marbrand strode ahead of his force and met Alvin halfway, clasping arms. "As was I. What happened within this town?" He was speaking of the destroyed undead scattered amongst the ruins.

Alvin smiled crookedly. "Our own little battle. It was a vigorous one for a while there, but then Lord Nex showed up and, ah, ended it." His smile faded. "Sir, on our way north we encountered signs of the main Scourge host's passage. Arthas is on the move."

So there it was. "Nex guessed it was coming soon. In truth he thought it should've already happened." He straightened, tightening his grip on the scout's wrist. "And before you came north? I was afraid you'd been drafted into the Alliance army."

The scout turned emissary's smile faded. "It was a closer thing than you think." He turned to face one of the two armored figures who'd stepped forward from the waiting group. "This is Ganis of Stormwind, a paladin of the Order of Turalyon. He was kind enough to provide an escort on our journey north."

Marbrand clasped the paladin's hand. "My thanks for caring for my men. Have you come to join the cause?"

The paladin, a young man with a surprisingly reserved posture, shook his head. "No, Sir. We accompanied Master Alvin because we'd heard the Sons of Lothar had returned from Azeroth, and were under the command of a man named Nex, known to us as Nex-thanarak or Nothing."

Marbrand was surprised. Nex seemed to know a surprising number of people given his disengaging nature. "Then you believed we came from Outland? Few others have."

"We have good reason to." Ganis frowned. "We'd hoped to have some news of our leader, a man by the name of Puros Lightfinder who disappeared into a portal leading to Outland."

Marbrand shook his head. "I've not heard the name, I am sad to say. Would I could repay the generosity of your escort with some news."

"The question has been answered for us," another paladin in the group said stiffly. "Although not to our satisfaction."

"Few find the truth satisfying, Lonan."

Marbrand's head snapped around, as did most everyone else's, to see Nex descending from the tall cliff that overlooked the town to the west, walking nimbly along a narrow track. It was obvious from the way the paladins and armsmen of Azeroth stiffened that the young lord was not their friend.

"Which brings us to our other purpose for coming," Ganis said. "I apologize, Master Alvin, that I refrained from mentioning it before. This man you've sworn your service to is a criminal, wanted by King Varian of Azeroth for the crimes of murder and high theft, as well as fomenting rebellion and conspiring with the enemies of Azeroth."

A murmur went up among the men behind him. Marbrand rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Light preserve him, why? "So you accuse him. Yet you do not seem to have attempted to take him into custody."

The paladins looked at each other uncomfortably. "It's . . . complicated. He has saved our lives on occasion, and accompanied Lord Puros to Outland as an ally as well as a prisoner. There is also the matter of his, ah-"

"The fact that you don't have the power to detain him?" Nex said, baring his teeth. "You should be thanking me, Lonan. I'm going north to clean up humanity's little mess."

"Yes, there is that," Ganis admitted. An uncomfortable silence settled, and that seemed to be the end of it. Marbrand was surprised to see paladins abandon justice so readily, but if their leader was dead and their quarry beyond their strength, perhaps they were wise enough to realize there was no other choice.

Marbrand turned to Nex. "We've managed to gather a few small ships. Nothing capable of crossing the Great Sea or the Frozen Sea, but they might prove useful. What course do we set now?"

"We wait here."

Marbrand blinked. "Here? There's no ships anywhere in the area, and the town is a complete ruin.

"We wait here," Nex said again, tone brooking no argument.

At a loss, he stared down at the desolate and deserted beach with its tiny quay, overlooked by forbidding cliffs to east and west and half the town built on a steep upward slope. At all the undead, destroyed by the hand of Nex with only a little help from Alvin and these paladins from the south.

Then he nodded. "Here, then. I'll make plans for a more permanent camp and begin gathering supplies for the voyage. It'll be a good opportunity to dive back into training the recruits."

"It won't be long." With that the young lord turned and strode away, back toward the steep cliff path leading up to the overlook where he'd first been when they arrived.

Alvin sidled up to him and spoke in a low voice. "He's been there most of the time since he arrived. Just sitting with his legs hanging over the edge, head turned northward, or sometimes westward. It's uncanny. We would've continued our search for you if he hadn't assured us you were coming here."

"What's he been doing?"

For a moment the scout looked as if he'd reply sarcastically, since he'd just said what Nex had been doing, which was nothing. Then he shook his head. "I don't know. He seemed to know Arthas was on the move before we gave him the news. And when I brought up the idea of searching the coastline for ships he acted as if it weren't important. I've seen flashes of light from up there, fel green sort of light. I wonder if he isn't working some magic, or maybe communing with his master from a distance or with the dead or some other means of gaining information."

Marbrand shook his head. At first he'd feared that Nex meant to command his army, something the boy was obviously unqualified by experience, temperament, and charisma to do. But thankfully he seemed content to let Marbrand take the reins entirely there, and when he had directions to impart he came straight to Marbrand and didn't try to undercut his authority.

So the boy wasn't a fool, even if he was a horrible leader. He was obviously settling into more of an advisory role, or perhaps liaison to the rest of Illidan's forces.

And as Nex saw fit to leave Marbrand to his work, offering his help when needed, Marbrand would do the same. "Whatever he is, we know our own part. Let's see to setting the camp and turn with a will to gathering the provisions we'll need, on the voyage and in Northrend both." He sighed. "A pity your paladin friends won't accompany us. I fear we'll be in great need of their sort in the battles to come."

Alvin shook his head. "They're still suspicious of Nex. Even though he aided us in clearing the town, and gave them the news they wished of Puros Lightfinder's death, I've heard some speculate when they thought I wasn't listening that Nex slew the paladin himself." The scout paused, troubled. "Do you think him capable of it?"

Who knew what the blind young lord was capable of. "Do they?" Marbrand responded.

A shrug. "They seemed to believe in his hatred for demons, if nothing else, so a tale of him fighting alongside Puros against greater demons until the paladin finally fell and he was forced to flee makes sense."

"And yet they suspect."

"They don't like him. We won't bring justice against our employer as they would like, but still it troubles me to know he was a thief and murderer in Stormwind."

Marbrand turned away. Things were as they were. "He's a gray man in a gray world. As long as his enemy is the Scourge and we're sworn to aid him in that fight there's no purpose thinking of anything else."

. . . . .

The next few days were frantic as they did their best to gather the provisions they'd need. Northrend wasn't all frost and ice, Hal the goblin had told them, particularly at the southern edge of the continent and especially since they were moving towards the summer months when it would be warmest. Still they had best not hope for anything there, since the Scourge may have laid all to waste.

So any rest the army may have hoped for proved elusive, for along with training and gathering provisions Marbrand had set men to felling trees. Wood would always be useful, especially in the cold, and he had the best of their lumberjacks splitting planks to be made into tower shields. Shields was one thing he was determined every soldier should have, even if their other weapons proved inferior. And because it was undead they were going to be fighting he also had them fashioning clubs out of the best hardwoods. Not so useful as a heavy-headed axe or mace, but better than staffs or daggers, which was what most of the recruits had, if they had anything.

After hearing Montfere's tale of Nex and his endless torpedoes hidden inside his cloak, Marbrand cornered the young lord and found out that weapons wouldn't be a problem after all, provided no one cared about the limited range or melee application of the torpedo. Nex somehow had _thousands_ of the things, which he pulled out of nowhere. Hal immediately got to work trying to figure out how they could be affixed to a haft to make a weapon with a longer reach that would still make use of the wicked tips at either end, while Marbrand set his recruits to practicing throwing them in volleys and wielding them hand to hand. They were solid iron, albeit the wrong color, and enchanted with undead slaying, so they were already superior weapons to hardwood clubs.

They were making good progress. As always food was their biggest concern, but there, too, Nex didn't seem overly worried, although he was adamant they gather sufficient cloth and furs to keep themselves warm.

The third day after arriving at the town Marbrand stood looking at the growing stack of supplies, feeling a great deal of satisfaction. Behind him the camp was coming awake, and several men were gathered around the largest campfire attempting to boil a bitter bark from a low-growing bush that Hal insisted would create an invigorating tea. While they waited, vocally expressing their doubt, they chatted about random nonsense.

"You're all wasting your time with woodcutting, I tell you," the goblin was insisting. "If I had a shredder I could get everything we needed in a day, all by myself."

"Yeah, I seen yer shredder," one of the dwarvish recruits, a veteran of the Third War, said. "I kin tell ye several night elves have nightmares about 'em."

"I didn't know goblins could make anything that didn't explode," Kyle said.

"Nah, buddy, ya're wrong there, right?"

"What, you mean you do make things that don't explode?"

"Nah, ya ain't getting it. Shredders have been known ta explode if the warranty is voided."

"What the hell is a warranty?"

"Believe me, buddy, if ya don't know I'm doing you a favor keeping the concept from ya. Dabeeble has caused more suffering than some war criminals."

"You goblins make commerce seem dirty."

"Kek."

Marbrand turned his head at the strange noise and saw everyone staring at Hal in befuddlement. "Did you just say "kek?" Alvin finally asked.

Hal tore his gaze from the glurping solution in the kettle to glance over at them. "Oh ya, ya know? Orcish, right? How they express amusement?"

A few of the Sons weren't so happy about this. "Yeah, I bet as a goblin you've had plenty of dealings with the Horde," Gad muttered.

Hal's smile faded. "Oh hey, I forgot ya guys were veterans of the Second War. No disrespect, right, but I was just a mercenary technician. If the Alliance had been up for it I'da been just as happy ta make bombs and airships and boats and shit for your side, right? But they're a buncha cheap bastards, I tell you what. I'm still waiting for payment on a minor contract out of Stromguarde and all."

"How the hell is Stromguarde supposed to pay you back when it's a pile of rubble?" Blackfinger demanded.

But a few of the other men were looking at each other. "To be honest, boss," Jory said, "_we're _still waiting for payment too."

"I know, right?" Hal said agreeably. "Damn Alliance tightwads. They're always happy ta honor a bit of paper, but unless ya set a definite deadline for honoring it they'll hedge and hedge, don't they?"

Again the Sons shared a sullen glance. It was probably running through most of their heads that _their _futures currently depended on that sort of contract. Marbrand rubbed his chin; come to think of it, he didn't recall seeing anything about a date on that parchment they signed. He should probably look it over again.

But while his people hated rich tightwads, they seemed far happier focusing on the target of orcs, now that Hal had brought it up. And no one could do orc-bashing better than veterans of the Second War. By the time Hal had sampled the concoction and, grinning cheerfully, handed it to Blackfinger, the insults about the green-skinned creatures were flying fast and hard.

Blackfinger took a sip of the tea, then made a strangled sound and spat it out, flinging the kettle away. "Lords of Azeroth, goblin, that's the foulest thing I've ever tasted. Never suggest anything again."

"Sure thing, boss. Orcs seem to like it."

Silence fell. "What?"

"Nah, not really. Just trying ta shut ya all up. Ya know, I'm probably wastin' my time, but ya guys are all wrong about orcs."

"You'd know, gobbo," Tacker growled. "You're their green-skinned little cousins, aren't you? Thick as thieves during the Second War."

"Yeah, I would know," Hal shot back. "All the things the orcs did, they were forced ta, ya know? It was a demonic pact, they weren't themselves. Ya'd have been just as bad under the circumstances."

The veteran stood, looking dangerous. "Would I?"

Hal was forced to stare almost straight up to meet the man's gaze, getting an impressive view of nose hairs sprouting out of control at the same time. "Sure thing. Ya humans, ya've spent the last few centuries fighting anyone ya could. Trolls, dwarves, even goblins. And yourselves most of all. The orcs had a peaceful, shamanistic society until the Burning Legion corrupted 'em. And they would again if humans would just leave 'em alone."

Marbrand wanted to intervene, but the moment a commander stepped into something like this the men got antsy; it was a private discussion, none of his business.

Blackfinger spoke. "That's total and utter bullshit, goblin, and we'd be the ones to know. We spent years among the orcs on their homeworld, and all those years was spent fighting. And it wasn't no demonic corruption either; half the orcs we met were never a part of the pact."

The goblin hunched his shoulders. "They're just doing what they know. They can be taught better."

Marbrand couldn't help but laugh, and he wasn't the only one. "Sure, if that was their nature," Blackfinger said. "But it isn't. A peaceful society? Sure, they're so peaceful they believe the only way to win honor and glory is in combat. A shamanistic society of wise old orcs close to the elements and striving to keep all things in balance? Like hell, it was the shamans who made first contact with the demons, and not just any shamans but their most revered and influential. And I have it on good authority they were in conflict with the draenei long before any demonic pact made them aggressive."

Hal stared at the big man for a long minute, those cunning goblin eyes showing nothing of the twisted thought process working through that oversized brain. Then he shrugged and turned away. "Can't convince someone whose mind is already made up, am I right? Don't matter anyways since we're going to a place where there's no orcs, and I'm not paid to fight anything but undead anyway."

Marbrand almost expected his friend to go after the little green bastard, but instead Blackfinger stood and stalked away, finding Geana where she and some of the other women were tanning hides. He whispered something to her, and the two went off together.

Marbrand wandered over to the fire. "I've heard goblins are suicidal, Hal."

The goblin grinned up at him. "Nah, we just don't fear death."

"Unless you're actively seeking it, I'd steer clear of talking about orcs."

"Yeah, I figured."

Before Marbrand could say anything else he heard a piercing whistle. He looked over to the west overlook, where Nex had been training Ilinar. It was the boy who'd whistled, and he was now pointing westward. Marbrand broke into a run toward the nearest vantage point.

Here was his answer to why Nex had seemed content to wait here. There were ships coming. Not boats or sloops or the like but real ships, oceangoing vessels. Five in all, not matching or even in any way similar. A couple looked to be alliance frigates, there was a big wide-bellied merchant vessel, and a smaller, sleeker ship that looked like a pirate's dream of speed.

And a night elf vessel, a surprisingly beautiful ship of some pale white wood, carved in the shape of a swan with a long tapering prow and a sloping stern. Rather than the normal sails it had two angled masts in the center of the vessel, one hard to port and hard to starboard so the furled white sails resembled tucked in wings. From the lines of the ropes it looked as if the unfurled sails would give the swan ship the appearance of being just about to take flight, the sails extending far out over the water to either side.

Where had they come from? How had they arrived here? And, perhaps most perplexing of all, how were they moving? Those with sails unfurled were tattered, one was missing a mast, and the frigates had no oars in sight, the holes they'd extend from gaping empty. There were no crews in sight, either.

Was this the magic Nex had been working atop that cliff all this time? Did even he have that sort of power?

Then he became aware of another perplexing feature of these ships, although one that offered a possible answer to the other questions. Rippling at the front of every ship was an elongated vee. He had little experience with sea travel, but even he knew that was unnatural. All boats cut a wake behind them, but it appeared these ones had a wake in front of them as well. It wasn't until one of those forward wakes resolved itself into a shell in a spray of water that he realized that the ships were being towed by colossal turtles such as had dragged the water tanks across Hellfire Peninsula.

Naga. Of course, there were all the answers. And a useful ally to have on a sea voyage.

Ilinar was scrambling down the treacherous path, while Nex seemed to have disappeared. Down the side of the cliff? Marbrand hurried to meet up with the boy and together, along with a few dozen other Sons of Lothar, they made their way down to the shore.

There they found four massive naga bearing tridents slithering up to shore, were Nex awaited them. The largest of the naga, with an impressive frill around where it/his/her ears should be, eased forward to tower over the young lord.

"Human," the naga hissed. "I am Sajav, Myrmidon of Her Excellency, Lady Vashj. Lord Illidan requessted that we seek you out on our way north, bring you shipss and guide you across the Great Ssea. I am pleassed you brought enough troops that our detour was not a wasste."

"I am grateful for your Lady's aid," Nex said with a small bow. "As you can see, no ships remain intact here. I fear we would've been stranded had you not come."

The naga made a gurgling noise that may have been laughter or the creature choking on seawater. "Sset adrift, human. Dozens of shipss, stormwracked and unmanned, or manned by undead, floating out beyond the continental sshelf. We found many on our way here easst from Nazjatar and they were in our path."

"The aid of the naga is indispensable."

"Don't patronize me," the naga said flatly. He turned to survey Nex's irregulars who were gathering higher up the sloping beach, moving fluidly on a muscular tail. "You will board immediately. Time is wassting."

Nex hesitated. "Our supplies-"

"Neptulon ssodomize your suppliess. We will keep you worthlesss slugs fed from the deepss."

Marbrand cleared his throat and stepped forward. "We've gathered up enough warm clothing, cloaks, blankets, and furs for everyone. Food was our only real concern, aside from weapons and armor."

"You will have thosse in Northrend," Sajav said. "When you tear them from the cold, dead handss of those ssoldiers who followed the Pale Prince to Northrend and were betrayed."

Marbrand nodded. "Still, I would ask for another day to complete preparations. It is a long voyage, and in Northrend we will want for anything we don't gather here."

Sajav didn't look pleased, but his frills tucked back towards his head. "For two hundred humansss I will wait a day, no more."

"I'm glad to hear it." Nex pointed to a spot on the beach. "If you can bring the ships there as close as possible we'll begin loading them."

The naga made another gargling noise of amusement. "Our turtless could drag them up the beach if we wished."

"Unnecessary." Nex glanced out to see as if looking over a multitude. "How fared your efforts to gain the support of more of your people from Nazjatar?"

The myrmidon hissed as if affronted, and for a moment Marbrand wondered if he'd answer. "Lessss than expected. Our warriors are needed for other threatsss. We are too, and sso we would like to be off quickly."

"Are there not endless recruits to be had in the murky depths? I was always given to understand that life began in the sea, and in the sea the greatest variety can be found."

Sajav hissed in amusement. "On land all is two dimensssssional. North, south, east, and wesst. In the sssssea's depths all is three-dimensional. And in three dimensssions all is empty. You can sssearch for league after dark cold league, and find nothing like yourssself. Only on land do creaturesss pack together so they may easily be found."

"Fair enough." Nex turned to Marbrand. "The naga are in a hurry, sir. Get to work."

. . . . .

The Castaway pulled himself off his bed of musty blankets and furs, rubbing his eyes as he craned his head up and listened to the thumping, crashing, and general cursing going on above.

Yes, no two ways about it. Either there was a battle going on up there or men were at work. He was assuming it was the latter, since the cursing he heard was far too sullen and bitter to be heard in battle.

About damn time.

Not trying to fight a yawn, he ambled over to the small water cask and peeked inside. Barely an inch left, but he was still annoyed; after weeks of voluntary privation it turned out he had plenty after all. He tilted the cask and filled the cup, gulping down all that remained. Then, belly full, he flipped the hood of his cloak up and ambled up onto the deck. Above him the furled wing-sails tried to flap free in the breeze, and men were dragging supplies up a crude gangplank made of two fallen trees lashed together.

"Oy!" one of the laborers called in Common. "What's it look like down there?"

The Castaway glanced back the way he'd come. "Wretched. Looks like a wild animal's been living down there, smells like it too. We're probably going to have to clean it out."

The human, a veteran soldier by the looks of him, cursed. "As if we didn't have enough work to do. Anything useful at least?"

He shrugged. "Empty barrels, cloaks and blankets and furs. Lots of rope and a bit of spare sailcloth. No sign of bodies." He'd owed the night elf sailors that much, at least, giving them the rest of a watery grave. Also the smell, gods.

"Right, well that's something." The man jerked his head. "Get on down there and back to work."

"Sure thing, boss. Any chance you've got a spare bit of food on you? I'm starving."

The man let his load slide to the deck and rummaged in his belt pouch, coming out with a withered apple and a poorly dried strip of rancid meat. "Probably doing me a favor, eating this."

"Good enough." The Castaway wasted no time snatching them from the man's hands, then hopped over the side, eating ravenously as he went, and made for the pile of goods the humans were loading.

Now for the all-important question of where this ragged lot was going. He couldn't come right out and ask without cluing people in that he didn't belong, so he'd have to be circumspect. He nodded at one of the porters lounging against the pile. "Think we'll head straight there?"

The man returned his stare blankly; not the sharpest quill on the desk. "Where?"

The Castaway shot the man a look of disgust. "Where we're going, obviously."

He got a look of disgust right back. "Too scared to even say it, eh?" The Castaway gave a one-shoulder shrug and smiled sheepishly. The man laughed. "Hell, I don't blame you. I wouldn't mind if it took us a year to get there. Even happier if we never saw Icecrown Glacier at all."

Icecrown. Meaning Northrend. Well, that answered the question of whether he should stay aboard his ship, which these humans had so casually taken possession of, or head off inland. An elf would have to be three kinds of stupid to go where these people were going.

Whistling, the Castaway bent to pick up a load. Before long he'd joined the line of laborers, no one so much as asking who he was or where the hell he'd come from.

. . . . .

When Marbrand went to pack up his tent, one of the last tasks to do for the night before preparing to board the ships in the morning, there was a scrap of rough packing paper on his cot with a note scrawled on it. Marbrand already knew who'd written it even before glancing at the signature. Devan was serving as their quartermaster, now that they actually had provision requirements they needed to keep on top of and recruits who didn't know how to provide for themselves. The man was awfully proud of his ability to write and took any opportunity to leave notes if he had paper. He sometimes went so far as to wait until Marbrand left before slipping into his tent and scrawling a message for him. Marbrand had once come back from a piss that couldn't have taken more than a minute to find a three-paragraph missive about the feasibility of treating meat from plagued animals.

So the note wasn't exactly unexpected.

"_Missed you in your tent, sir, but there's something we need to do before taking sail. At the stockpiles waiting. Not sure if it's theft or Jack and me are just piss-poor at numbers, but there's irregularities with the final tally. We tried four different counts and to our surprise they're all different. If you-"_

Marbrand couldn't help it; he threw back his head and laughed. Ah, Devan, bless his soul. So proud of his ability to write, self-taught too. But his spelling wasn't always so good. He'd left the "o" out of "counts".

Then Marbrand's smile faded as the thought occurred to him that maybe it _wasn't_ a misspelling. In that case he had no idea what the note was trying to say.

Clutching the scrap he pushed aside his tent flap and ducked out, weaving through the camp towards the supply dump on the beach. Devan, Jack, and a few of the other veterans were standing around scratching their heads. Literally.

Marbrand made his way over to his quartermaster and shoved the note in his face. "Just what exactly have you been getting up to here?" he asked.

Devan looked at him blankly. "Sir?"

Marbrand tapped his finger against the offending word. "You were trying these out, were you?"

The man just stared blankly at the paper, and Marbrand fought the urge to slap his forehead. Was it possible the idiot was the _only_ soldier who didn't know what that word meant, or at least how to read it?

But he dropped the issue as Devan led him over to a pile of furs, which had apparently been twice as big earlier today. And as he realized that this pathetic little stack was all they had to keep over two hundred men and women warm in the frozen wastes of Northrend his amusement vanished.

"You've been keeping watch?" he demanded. Devan nodded fiercely. "You obviously must have looked away at some point. These things didn't just walk away on their own."

"Maybe they did, sir."

Marbrand cursed the fool three kidns of ways before returning to his inspection of the furs. They had to do something to figure this out, because as it stood he didn't dare sail to Northrend so poorly equipped. Half his army could freeze to death before they'd gone ten miles.

"As I see it," he said heavily, "we'll either need to gather more, or look to our spellcasters for a magical solution."

Devan fidgeted. "Shouldn't we, er, search the camp first?"

Marbrand was loathe to stoop to that. If he had men snooping around treating his soldiers like criminals it was going to be bad for morale. "Let's speak to our casters first."

So Nex, Olivia, and the silent mage Bobbulus were rounded up. Havel he was hesitant to speak to just yet, because the priest had a problem keeping his mouth shut. The mage provided an arcane perspective and would, at least, have a more difficult time blabbing it around. The goblin Hal had given him a little notebook and a quill pen with an internal ink cartridge so he could communicate; oddly enough the goblin seemed to like the fat mage.

The situation was presented, and then Marbrand and the others fell silent waiting for the casters to speak.

Nex spoke first, his voice distant as if only a fraction of his attention was on what he was saying. "There are enchantments for frost resistance. At a master level artifacts could be created which would allow a man to walk through a blizzard naked. But the magic necessary for such things could be better put to other purposes."

Olivia nodded. "It is the same with the Light. It can bring comfort in all things, but such efforts from me could only benefit a relative handful, and leave me helpless to do any more."

Bobbulus scratched in his notebook for a moment, then handed Marbrand the message. _Why are you discussing alternatives when you still haven't figured out where the furs went?_ "It might be they're gone for good. But mostly I'm hesitant to cause a stir in camp by beginning a search unless absolutely necessary."

"There's no need to search the camp," Nex said calmly, his voice suddenly clear and focused. "Your furs are over there." He pointed out towards the nearest ship, the night elf swan.

Marbrand felt a mixture of chagrin and annoyance. Not only had he not realized the young lord was seeking out with his second sight, but he'd forgotten to ask him for that particular aid in the first place. Not to mention the fact that it appeared to have been unnecessary after all. "In the ship? As in they've already been loaded up?"

"No, sorry." The young lord dropped his arm, so his finger pointed below the ship, into the water.

It took a moment for them to figure out what he meant. "How?" Devan demanded. "Washed away by the tide?"

"If the tide wrapped them around stones and hurled them into the ocean."

Nex had a tendency to say unexpected things, but this left Marbrand completely confused. "I don't understand. Are you saying deliberate sabotage? Why would anyone deprive themselves of warm clothing on a trip north?"

"I can't think of any reason. Perhaps enemies snuck into the camp?"

"How? This stockpile is surrounded by men on all sides, and the naga guard the waves."

"Or mebbe there was some figgered if we din't have warmth, we couldn't go north," Devan speculated. "Like some of the recruits was trying to prevent us from sailing."

Nex shrugged. "Either way you'd best fetch them out of there, and post a guard in the future to prevent further acts of sabotage."

"Are you sure that's what you're seeing?" Marbrand asked, frowning. "I don't like to think of enemies in the camp. That sort of distrust will destroy an army's morale and cohesion."

"Then guard against it without mentioning it. There are ways of solving problems without holding hands and talking it out until everyone's been stroked and petted."

Marbrand bristled. "And what would your solution be to fetching those furs back? That water's freezing this time of year, and it's the dark of night beside. We can't wait for when the tide goes out and washes them away."

"Then you'd best find someone undeterred by cold or wet or gloom of night."

Devan scratched at his head. "What, like postmen?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of Havel's mules."

Bobbulus was sent off to fetch the animate dead, who managed to retrieve the furs in only three hours. People still at work loading the ships looked on curiously at the odd sight, but Marbrand sent the rumor around that the tide had washed the furs away. Any fool giving it a moment's thought would realize that couldn't be right, but he'd found most people didn't think about anything they didn't absolutely have to.

Dawn was peeking over the horizon by the time they got all the supplies loaded into the ships and split the armies into groups of fifty or so to go to each. He tried to put a few sailors, or at least those who knew something of knots and wind, on each vessel, even though Sajav had assured him the turtles would pull the ships the entire way; as long as they stayed afloat, they'd reach Northrend.

Still, if they could manage to get those with sails working it would put less of a burden on the turtles, give the men something to do, and give them a chance to not be completely buggered if the naga decided to abandon them.

"I expect discipline to be tight on each ship," he told the four officers he'd set to the other ships; the sleek, swift clipper he'd taken for himself. Blackfinger, naturally, along with Alvin, Falstan, and Jocal. "You'll keep them clean, drill the troops twice daily, and stay on top of ship maintenance. The ship that gets its sails in order first wins bragging rights and an extra silver mark for each man who contributed."

"You're acting as if we won't be talking to each other for weeks," Blackfinger argued.

Marbrand glanced at the boats that had been pulled up on the decks of each ship. They could get around if needed, but there'd be no way to know if the little boats could keep up with ships being towed by the massive turtles. "For now we'll assume each ship must be autonomous." He lowered his voice, glancing over at the naga waiting impatiently along the surf. "Also ration our food stores, rely on the fish first and foremost. I don't want to be helpless if our host's welcome wears thin."

"Nex can walk on water."

Marbrand turned with irritation towards Ilinar, wondering how long the boy had been listening in. "Yes, no doubt the other priests can as well. This is just precaution."

Ilinar's brow was furrowed. "I bet I could walk on water too, if I did it right. Or at least froze the water beneath me."

Alvin snorted. "You think you can freeze enough water when you're on a choppy sea?"

The boy took the question serious, rather than as mild chiding. "Maybe," he said solemnly.

Marbrand smiled and ruffled the boy's hair, causing Ilinar to glare at him in affront. "Get everyone loaded up."

The officers all separated to see to their vessels, except for Alvin who hung back, staring out at sea to the rosy glow of clouds lit up by a sun that hadn't risen for them yet. "You know if we get a lot of storms at sea this time of year?"

That was a good question. "It's spring, so probably. Isn't there some sailor's bit about spring squalls?"

The scout shuddered. "I hope not."

. . . . .

"_Join the army, they said. See the world, they said. I'd rather be sailing."_

During the Second War one of his fellow infantrymen, Lons, had said that. It had sounded awfully grand the way he described it, sunning on deck day after day, eating fresh-caught fish, the salt wind in your face and a different port every time. Sounded like paradise when you were wading through throngs of orcs, hilt slippery with blood and your shield too heavy to keep lifted any longer, nothing but moldy biscuit in your belly and more of the same _if_ you survived the damn battle.

Alvin wanted to find old Lons and punch him in the face. He had a far different litany.

Unfurl the sails, Marbrand had said. Take the workload off the naga, he'd said. Tell a bunch of old soldiers and peasants to learn how to catch the wind and manipulate sails. And oh no, not nice simple sails like you saw on human ships, but these absurdly angled fanciful swan-wing sails on a night elf ship that stretched out to either side so if you fell it was into water often as not. The very shape of them, the way they connected, the way they moved, all seemed off, so that what seemed like rather simple configurations failed miserably.

Why couldn't he have been on the Darkness, or Tayna's Hope? Watching those two frigates move their simple, straightforward sails around was like watching children play in the park.

"Left, damn you!" he roared at Hanis, who was currently more occupied with not flying off the spar into the choppy sea below. It had been the fool's own idea to climb the mast and try fiddling with the sail configuration, and never mind that the sails had been neatly furled and arranged when they'd got on this damn night elvish heap. He'd never even seen the purple-skinned elves, but after trying to work their vessel he loathed them with a passion.

The spar groaned and started to shift, the sail roaring thunder in the wind, and in spite of his planted feet Alvin was dragged almost a full yard across the deck. He leaned back, pulling with all his might as the line threatened to snake free, which would send the boom flailing out of control and probably tear the sail to rags. He'd let the line slip just once, and blood still dripped down to the deck below from where the skin of his palms had been torn away. Since then he'd wrapped the line around both wrists several times, which meant if he _did_ lose control he'd end up flying around as wild as the boom.

Light merciful, two days of this, and who knew how many to go. He wasn't prone to seasickness like some of the others, but the thought of enduring this sort of weather all the way to Northrend made him want to retch.

"Carver, Hudgins, where the hell are you? Why is the back line still flying wild?" No answer. Who knew, maybe they'd been tossed overboard. And this wasn't even a proper storm. He felt himself slip another foot and knew the sea was going to claim another victim if he didn't find some way to extricate himself. But noooo, they couldn't just let the naga tow them and leave seamanship to the creatures that lived in the damn pond. His commander wanted him to kill himself learning sails, so by the gods he was damn well going to.

Before the line could tug him off his feet a lithe cloaked shape appeared in front of him, throwing his own weight on the rough rope. Alvin didn't recognize the man, but at the moment it could've been an undead, an orc, or a demon itself and he would kiss the thing's stinking brow.

But helping him hold the line wasn't the only thing on the newcomer's mind. "We need to angle this sail thirty degrees port," he shouted into the wind. "That'll get us tacking properly in this wind."

Alvin didn't question the man, he simply glanced over at the other men working the sail and began bellowing orders. His men seemed to sense that this wasn't just a random, desperate order, and to his surprise within minutes, guided by the stranger's insistent voice, he had the starboard sail set and tied down and they were working on the port sails. Within another ten minutes they had those sails set, too, and rather than fighting the wind and waves the night elf ship was cutting through them. The lines leading out to the giant turtles towing them even started to slump as their speed gave them some slack.

Alvin sank to his knees on the deck, panting. A moment later a gloved hand was shoving a flask in his face.

"Here."

He didn't question, just snatched the thing and began gulping. Fire burned down his throat from some potent liquor. Alvin didn't know where the stranger had got it, or how, but he didn't care. When he couldn't bring himself to take another gulp he thrust the flask back at his benefactor and wiped his mouth. "If you knew how to work the damn sails why weren't you helping from the beginning?"

The stranger shrugged. "I know how to work elvish sails, somewhat. There's some similarities, but I wasn't sure the same concepts applied to night elf designs. If I'd tried to help you might have been even worse off."

"Like hell."

Another shrug. "Besides, I didn't want to draw attention to myself."

Alvin narrowed his eyes. Elvish sails, the stranger had said. And now he could see that the man's hood bulged around his head, as if it was restraining a high elf's long, tapered ears. Only that was impossible, since they hadn't recruited anything but humans and dwarves, aside from that obnoxious goblin Hal and the stinking undead. As far as he knew, at the time they boarded the ships the Sons of Lothar hadn't boasted a single elf on their roster.

Well aside from the boy, but he was on _Darkness_ with Lord Nex.

He slowly pushed to his feet, looking into the hood's deep shadows. He thought he might've seen this fellow around, but not since he'd boarded this nightmare of a ship. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

In the shadows of his hood the elf's lips quirked. "Bal'a dash malanore." That was definitely Thalassian, if he'd had any other doubts about this stranger being an elf. "I've taken to calling myself the Castaway. It's surprisingly fitting given my recent trials."

Alvin's eyes narrowed further. "So what, you snuck aboard without us knowing?"

"No, that would be a _stowaway_. I was here before you were. As I see it, you bastards boarded my ship without even asking."

"Boarded your . . . As far as any of us knew, these ships were only a step up from shipwrecks, gathered in the Great Sea by the naga for our use."

"Yes, well, you know best. It _is_ practically a shipwreck. As for the naga, they didn't seem to mind me staying aboard. Although they did spend a time hissing at me and shaking those frills on their heads."

Alvin nodded. "Well you're lucky to have survived, but it's no surprise the naga let you be. We're allied with the high elves."

The Castaway's lips twisted bitterly. "Some of my people still calling themselves high elves?"

He blinked. "Well no, they call themselves blood elves." Alvin glanced around at his men, who had started to gather, listening with interest. He switched to Thalassian, ignoring their disgruntled looks. "What are you doing on a night elf ship?"

"Sailing." The elf gestured. "I've overheard some talk, but my picture of the situation is still incomplete. I answered some of your questions, human, now answer some of mine. Who the hell are _you_, and why are you going to Northrend?"

Alvin abruptly laughed, as much from disbelief as amusement. "Stowaway, castaway, or tagalong, you picked the wrong ship to hide out in, Castaway. We're on our way to attack the heart of the Scourge itself, and perhaps end this war once and for all."

"Well that's definitely a war I can get involved in. Who leads you?"

"Ah ah ah," Alvin said, shaking his finger. "I think before anything else we need to swear you into the Sons of Lothar."

The Castaway went oddly still. "What? Is that some kind of joke?"

Alvin rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Why him? Nobody on Azeroth seemed willing to believe they'd returned from Draenor, aside from those paladins from Stormwind. They all thought they were charlatans profiting off a well known and well respected name. Except what kind of idiots why try to claim to be part of a group that had gone to another world and never returned, unless they actually were?

But before he could speak the elf continued. "Or _is_ it a joke? Where did you come from?"

He couldn't help but be surprised. The man was actually willing to entertain the notion that they'd returned from Outland. "Castaway isn't good enough. Who are you?"

"Who leads you?" the Castaway demanded in return.

"We're sworn to Lord Nex." The elf's face remained blank. "He's in service to Lord Illidan, who leads this expedition."

For a long moment the Castaway stared at him, face paling. With fear, with surprise? Perhaps even with rage. Then he uncorked his flask of liquor and took several long, steady gulps.

"Bloody hell," he finally said.

. . . . .

"Of all the ships I could've sailed on. There was a nice one going to Ratchet, but _noooo_."

The Castaway had sworn himself to the Sons of Lothar. He hadn't seemed too reluctant to do so, which was a surprise considering that even Lady Alleria's Rangers had refused to do it, back when the expedition set out for Draenor. And in all the time since they'd remained a distinct body.

But then, a single elf on board a one-way trip to Northrend couldn't afford to be so haughty, could he?

Alvin wished Marbrand was here. Or Blackfinger. Or even Nex. He had misgivings about the elf, although nobody seemed ill-disposed towards him and the Castaway was fairly easygoing. Although he'd cursed up a storm when finding out they served Illidan Stormrage. He didn't seem at all bothered that they'd embarked on a suicidal mission against the Scourge and dragged him along, but for some reason the leadership pissed him off.

Who knew. High elves hated the Scourge more than anyone, perhaps even humans themselves. And Alvin had never heard of these night elves before until returning to Azeroth, but if they were relatives to high elves they were undoubtedly estranged, which would explain why the Castaway was so irked.

It didn't matter, though. Alvin didn't really care as long as the elf was one of them, and besides the Castaway had been good enough to go half and half on his flask with him.

"It could be worse," he said, tossing the dice again. He cursed when the pips came up against him.

The Castaway snatched up the dice and tossed them without so much as shaking them in his hand. "How?"

Alvin grinned. "You could be losing this game."

For a moment the Castaway thought about that. Then, solemnly, he handed the flask over. "Finish her off. You need it more than I do."

It took two tries to pull the stopper free. He held the flask up in salute. "Welcome to the nightmare."

The Castaway grinned back, tossing the dice again out of turn. "It could be worse," he said.

"Oh?"

"Sure. I could be with the blood elf army."


	13. The Beachhead

If you're havin' ghoul problems I feel bad for you, son. I got 99 problems but a lich ain't one.

Chapter Twelve

The Beachhead

Alvin pulled the bone out of his mouth and spat it out. "Damnit, Carin, don't you know how to debone a fish?"

The older woman looked at him from behind the small stove of the ship's galley. "You try doing twenty in a row and see if you don't make any mistakes. And be grateful the naga are regular about giving 'em to us."

He was about to snap out a reply when he caught himself, with effort, and said nothing. Instead he grabbed his plate and fork and strode out of the small mess area.

Thirty-three days at sea. He'd heard sailors describe how it could get, one day after the next passing exactly the same. Oh sure there were changes, but they were always for the worse in the form of storms or high winds or the like. He didn't like it, not at all. The sea was usually rough and belowdecks stank of vomit and worse from those who suffered from seasickness or genuine sickness in the chill and damp. They had no priests on the _Swan_ and thus far none of them had sickened bad enough to ask one of the naga to relay a message, or try to tackle the unwieldy boats on the choppy water.

Morale was low, as much from the knowledge of where they were going as the suffering from where they were. People were getting irritable, snapping at the slightest thing. Those who tended to be surly kept to themselves, and those who normally laughed started quarrels instead.

And it was hard to forget where they were going. Spring was nearly on to summer and each day should be growing warmer, but with their constant northward speed they were outdistancing such changes, so that instead each day grew colder. The sun also drifted farther and farther south in the sky each day, although that was more gradual. He'd heard that in the north of norths each day lasted six months, followed by six months of night. Before he'd scoffed at such claims, but now he found himself deeply grateful they'd come in the summer.

Or it should be summer. It was all wrong; they were sailing into winter, and at the end of their voyage was the lands where winter never went away.

He ate his fish in the small closet he had for a cabin. It wasn't much, but the men felt as captain he should have his own room, and he wasn't willing to take any of the larger ones. Then he went to the small porthole of blown crystal at the back of the room and stared out at the darkening sea. He wasn't in a mood to go out and meet anyone else, but they had no candles and few safe means of making light on the ship so he couldn't read. Sleep was a temptation, but instead he made his way up onto deck where the Castaway slept beneath one of the boats.

Between the rough seas and the chill temperature most sailors avoided spending more time than they had to on the deck, but the Castaway had made a little nest from a few of the cloaks and blankets that had already been on the _Swan_. Ill-got perhaps, but nobody was inclined to complain. People liked the elf, even when tempers were so short no one quarreled with him, and more than a few sought him out for company.

But in the darkness no one had done so, although in truth the full moon lit the deck quite clearly. Even so the Castaway wasn't in his little nest. Alvin gave a shiver as the wind gusted strong from the north, bringing with it the stink of ice. They'd been dodging icebergs for the last few days, and the naga were saying there was an abyssal cliff ahead. He had no idea what that was, but it apparently meant their voyage was nearly over. The naga weren't saying much more than that; even when he spoke Thalassian to them they were reluctant to engage in conversation.

He was about to go back down belowdecks and see if the Castaway wasn't somewhere down there when he heard a soft murmur from the bow. He paused, listening, and it came again, the sound of a voice. He made his way up the small flight of steps that lead to the foredeck, expecting to see two people there in conversation, but at the same time it came into view, only the Castaway's cloaked form visible, he realized that it wasn't speech he heard, but singing.

He moved closer cautiously until he could hear more than just tune. He hadn't heard the Castaway sing before, and was surprised to find the man had a smooth, even voice, higher and clearer than he could have managed. His efforts to hear more than the tune were foiled since the Castaway wasn't singing any words, just the melody, but then after the man finished the wordless song he began it again, this time singing the words soft and clear. He appeared to be singing out to sea.

"I loved a maiden fair as spring

With flowers in her hair.

And loved her fiercely from the wing

But knew only despair.

My lord's own lass sweet, tender, pure

Who never looked my way

And held her lover's hand so sure

As they announced their wedding day.

Ah maiden sweet, my dear Anette

For you I'd slay a wight.

I'd storm a keep or the ocean deep

If you'd only hold me tight.

But in your palace you'll remain,

And for you at feasts I'll sing.

On wedding day chant a sad refrain

As you're married to a king."

The song faded away to the usual ship noises, and after a moment the Castaway began to turn. He gave a start of surprise at seeing Alvin there. "A hello would've been polite."

"I didn't want to interrupt you. Are you a bard then, Castaway?"

The Castaway leaned backwards against the railing, trying to smile it off but obviously irritated, or maybe embarrassed. "I'd make a poor bard. Music isn't quite as unusual a thing for my people as it is for yours."

Most elves didn't feel shame at singing, which meant it was the song itself. "Who's it about? A lover long past?"

The elf laughed softly. "You could say that. Anette Imbrethil was a lady of the old world, before man or even troll discovered the Quel'dorei in our ancient home beside the Sunwell. Dorvil Tantalus is the serving man who sang it. Neither he or the lady was ever very noteworthy in the histories, but the song was passed down because it resonates deep with so many."

"Including you?"

The elf's smile turned slightly bitter. "No more than most. As much as for you, perhaps."

Alvin laughed. "Until a few months ago I hadn't even seen a woman in years."

The Castaway shrugged. "The song isn't so much about love, as about deeply wanting something that's out of your reach by no fault of your own." The words struck Alvin like a blow, so much so that it must have shown on his face, because the elf's gaze sharpened. "And that, I think, is a pain everyone faces. Care to tell me yours?"

"No," Alvin said shortly, starting to turn away.

"Ah, but you felt no shame standing in the shadows listening to me sing my own pain."

He paused reluctantly. In any other situation he would've told the elf to go stuff himself, but the night was late, everyone was sleeping, and the combination of moonlight on the water, wind, and the sound of waves lapping against the ship set a strange mood. "Not love. Only a gross injustice that was never righted."

The Castaway faced him, nothing but quiet expectation on his smooth features. And so he came back to the rail and leaned out over the water, watching the reflection of the moon ripple.

"Twelve years ago, just after the Sons of Lothar arrived in Northrend, I was part of the force led by Marbrand to scout the mountain ranges known as Blade's Edge before the cataclysm. It was not an easy task, and Draenor was not short of foes to face, among them orcs, ogres, and those queer giants they call gronn.

"We encountered a foe like any other. Strange creatures with mouths like piranhas who did queer things with the shadows to make themselves less seen. They attacked us without warning, and as we fought them we gradually pushed them back to their village. We were not brutal in fighting, and honored all the unspoken rules of war. When one would surrender we took him captive and gave him what aid we could, and we did not touch children or noncombatants.

"As we were fighting in the village a group of other creatures came, entirely different from the others, tall and with feet like goats, with long tails and wide crests of bone on their foreheads. Unlike those we fought these were well armed and armored, and they called upon the Light in battle."

"Draenei," the Castaway murmured.

Alvin paused, surprised. "Yes, so we later found. How did you know?"

"I've heard of them. The first victims of the orcs."

"As far as we know. In any case they, too, fell upon us. We spoke nothing of their language, though we recognized some of what they said as Orcish. In any case they were too few to prove a challenge, and after taking heavy losses surrendered."

Alvin looked away, feeling again the old bitterness. "After the cataclysm, when we were picking up the pieces, was when we first made true contact with the draenei. We learned they were a just and peaceful people, with no true enemies save the Burning Legion and the orcs. The few prisoners we'd taken of their people were released, and we became allies in our efforts to survive on the shattered world Draenor had become."

The Castaway chuckled darkly. "Which is when the issue of you slaughtering a few of them and taking more prisoner came up."

Alvin spat over the side. It didn't clear the taste in his mouth. "The prisoners were honest in their testimony. We were shown to have been defending ourselves, and acting as mercifully as could be expected in the situation. Still the draenei are just, and the Church of the Holy Light teaches that justice is absolute, all actions given due reward or punishment. If anything the draenei Exarchs could teach our priests about unbending adherence. We were banished from the camps, bid to remain away from any draenei or Broken territory. And since the Expedition had worked so closely with the draenei up to this point that effectively meant we were cut off from them as well."

"And your companions had no objection to this?"

Alvin's hand clenched tighter on the railing. "Endless objections. It threatened to divide the camp. In some instances violence even broke out. Rather than risk the situation becoming worse Marbrand came to each of us in turn and asked that we willingly accompany him into exile. For the sake of peace. He promised us that once things settled a bit more he would see that things were set to rights."

"And twelve years later it still hasn't happened."

"No." He laughed. "Marbrand even tried to placate us by reminding us that our accusers, those who had drawn first blood, had received justice also."

"Let me guess, a slap on the wrist."

"Oh no. They were stripped of their positions as anchorites of the Army of Light and commanded to pray in penitence until they felt themselves absolved."

The Castaway laughed as well. "So they didn't even get slapped. And I thought I had real grievances against my people."

Alvin continued on grimly, emotions welling within him. "We were sent out to the perimeter, beyond the perimeter. An honorable task to preserve the lands of our people against the wild elements that remained on Outland. Orcs and demons for the most part, as well as a fair number of hostile native humanoids such as the bird-like arrakoa. We could content ourselves that in time our fighting in defense of the draenei would atone for our crime."

"And it didn't."

Alvin laughed. "We were gone, while our former brothers in arms were working alongside the draenei. They heard of their suffering at the hands of the orcs, of the miserable plight of their Broken, incurably twisted in the siege of Shattrath. The suffering of their women after the men and children had been slaughtered. And you can bet tales circulated of that ruthless band of murdering humans who stomped into a camp of Broken just trying to rebuild their lives and began slaughtering them, and even the anchorites who tried to protect them. Pretty soon in their minds we weren't unjustly banished friends and brothers fighting to protect them, but a group of outlaws and bandits to be fearful of. Perhaps among the leaders the truth was recognized, but nobody made a special effort to spread the word of what honorable, upright people we really were. Perhaps they didn't want to _offend the draenei_."

A long silence settled after that. Eventually the Castaway shifted, and Alvin became aware the elf was gripping the hilts of longsword and dagger at his waist so tightly his hands were white and bloodless. "A wonder you never thought to strike back at those who had wronged you."

"We would have, perhaps, but for Marbrand. In all Outland he was the only one still able to set an example of true nobility. He blames himself for our suffering, perhaps rightly, but there's not a one of us who wouldn't walk into the abyss for him."

"Or follow him to Northrend."

Alvin looked away. "He was against it," he said quietly. Suddenly he had a strong desire to be alone. "For his sake none of us mention the past. I would appreciate it if you wouldn't either."

"No problem." The Castaway clapped him on the shoulder, then turned and walked away, whistling that tune he'd sung earlier. But as he went his hands never left his weapons.

Alvin turned his eyes back north, and in the bright light of the full moon saw a blackness just visible above the waves, that did not move and stretched as far as he could see in every direction.

Had they come in sight of their destination? For a moment he considered calling the others to get their opinion. Then he thought better of it; let them get what sleep they could before setting foot upon that cursed land.

Instead he pulled his cloak of furs tighter about himself and hunched down, keeping an eye on that distant black smudge as it gradually grew closer through the night.

. . . . .

The sun had been up for over two hours before Nex finally "saw" the coast of Northrend.

Almost since first light others had been able to easily identify the ice-encrusted landmass rising ahead. All Nex could do was stand at the prow and listen to their descriptions, trying to focus his second sight as far and as narrowly as he could manage. But he was no far seer, and while the closer something was to him the more perfectly and intricately he could see its details, at distances he was extremely limited.

He'd felt blind before this, since losing his eyes, but never this completely.

And when the coastline finally did extend to within the limits of his second sight he became even more irritated. Northrend's coast was high and cliff-lined as far as those around him could see, and his eyes could trace those cliffs down into the deeps. There would be no easy place to come ashore without strenuous climbing and running the risk of their ships, or more likely the boats they sent out, being dashed against the rocks. There must be likely beaches somewhere hereabouts, but who knew how long it would take to find them.

They didn't have time for that.

"We can be there in a couple of hours at the speed we're going," Havel said from a short distance away, speaking to Bobbulus. The fat mage grunted something unintelligible in reply.

"Yes, if it's the cliffs we want to make for."

The undead priest blocked the morning sun from his eyes with his hands and squinted along the cliffs. "I don't see anything else."

Nex didn't answer. He was in the process of analyzing the pattern of breakage along the cliffs to determine what geological processes had possibly formed them, hoping to get some hint of in which directions the cliffs might be gradually lowering, when there was a call from the side of the ship, a sailor waving for him, personally. Nex walked over. "The naga wish to speak to you, m'lord," the man said.

Nex leaned over the side and saw Sajav treading water, making sinuous S patterns behind him. "Throw a rope down, human. We have thingsss to discuss."

In answer Nex stepped up onto the railing and off, levitating down to the water. As soon as his spell buffeted against the tops of the waves he was slowed to a stop and the ship began slipping past, a surprised Sajav as well. He broke into a trot to catch up. "Land has been in sight for most of the night."

The naga gurgled his odd form of laughter. "Yesss. On your boats above the water you sssee mountains rising ahead. In the depths we too sssee mountains risssing out of the deep, taller and wider and broader than any mountain you will ever see upon the sssurface. Now it fallsss to you, human. We left our lady's ssside to bring you here, now point usss in the direction we must go."

Nex pointed casually to the east. "It's not quite so simple, however. From what I sense they are already pushing inland, northwest even though their landing spot must have been far east of here, and they have a significant lead on us. We should be finding a place to land so we can offload and cut directly overland and intercept them."

"An easssy choice to make, for a surface dweller. And if the Ssscourge are present in number? The sssea is our domain, and we will be swifter and sssafer navigating it. In any cassse we will find an easssy landing sight where they are, and a guarded one."

Nex nodded grudgingly. "Take us parallel to the coastline, then."

Sajav immediately sunk beneath the waves with barely a ripple, and Nex saw him swimming away as fast as a man could run, towards where the dragon turtles and their handlers labored at the front of the ships.

He'd hoped to bring up the subject again if a likely beach came into view, but the day stretched longer and longer with only cliffs to their left. Nights were getting shorter so far north and with summer new come, so by the time noon arrived and it began stretching into afternoon nearly ten hours had passed. It was about that time that Nex's inspection of the cliffs revealed they were in fact getting lower, and angling towards a different pattern of breakage.

About that time those gathered on _Darkness_'s deck began calling out sightings of a haze ahead. Smoke, they thought, perhaps from a large fire or volcano. Too dark to be steam or fog. Nex felt a sinking feeling, because the Illidari stone told him his master, and likely the combined elvish and naga forces, were far north and west of him.

Which made it likely that that smoke came from their landing site. Which didn't bode well.

An hour later the turtles towed them around a cape, and they were so close that Nex could perceive the small beach which stretched along the river's inlet. It was lined with ships, and deeper out to see more ships were at anchor.

All were burning, undead swarming among the wreckage. He could see no sign of living elves or naga.

"Darkness eternal," Havel hissed. "Did your master's forces burn their own ships behind them?"

"Yes, and then they slaughtered a few hundred of those guarding the ships and brought in some undead to comb over the wreckage."

"What?"

Nex realized the air was thick with smoke, making it almost impossible to see the beach. Those around him were staring at him with confusion turning to fear. "The Scourge must have come in behind the army when they marched out, slaughtering those who remained and destroying the fleet. Odd that the Lich King elected to destroy his enemy's chance of escape when his position is so vulnerable. It will only make them press forward all the harder."

"Maybe his position isn't so vulnerable," Jocal said, coming up beside him. The captain of _Darkness _was squinting ahead, eyes tearing up in the smoke. "Maybe Arthas got here before us."

Nex shrugged and focused on more and more of the beach, searching up it to where the cliffs to either side narrowed into a tight tunnel through which the river passed, hardly suitable for traveling up if the cliffs above were defended. They'd have to scale the cliffs to the west when they landed, also a perilous task if the area above was defended, and if undead were climbing and attacking from all sides.

"Arthas or the Lich King's forces, whoever they are they're waiting for us," he said grimly.

"How many?" Jocal asked, gripping his longsword in uncertain hands.

"They cover the beach and infest the waters. Many, many of them."

So many. Where had they all come from? If the Lich King had these sorts of forces under his control what need did he have for Arthas to come rushing north to his aid? He wasn't weak and defenseless as Stormrage had seemed to believe. The force of Scourge here alone would be enough to dwarf his small army of recruits and irregulars, then swing northwest in pursuit of the elves and naga, who may already be beset.

Then his thoughts abruptly shifted. Considering conventional tactics was foolish when dealing with the Scourge. They were exempt from many of the limitations mortals faced in warfare. The Lich King's only weakness was the Frozen Throne itself. Any other losses the Scourge sustained could be regained. Time was no issue for an immortal commander and an army of the dead.

So why not send all available forces to the beachhead? Why not stop the assault on Northrend before it could begin? Mortals were frail in their boats, vulnerable to attack from below, from all sides. Trapped with no room to maneuver. It was an ideal situation for the undead, a nightmare for them. And it would only get worse when the reached the beach. The ships couldn't reach all the way to shore, they would be grounded anywhere from several feet to several hundred feet back. And so the charging human soldiers would have to wade through that turf, clumsy and slow and beset by undead. Even worse, if the Scourge forces managed to slay the giant turtles and halt the ships' forward progress they would be stranded there, with no choice but to leap into the sea and fight the Scourge at horrendous disadvantage or wait for the enemy to come to them on their ships.

On the other hand no wise commander ever wanted to bunch his forces to where they could be destroyed with a single attack. It was one of the basic rules of warfare against magic users. Far better to spread their forces out, attack constantly in a way that would drain the casters and exhaust the soldiers trying to defend against it. Just small but relentless attacks until the enemy could no longer stand. It was the ultimate strategy for an army of the undead.

The Lich King had been right in a way to attack them here with all his strength, but equally wrong. All Nex had to do to defeat this assault was get his troops to shore.

Easy as that.

He watched the hundreds upon hundreds of undead, having caught sight of their approach, surging into the water, churning the waves from beneath with their sheer numbers, and wanted to laugh.

Instead he turned. "Bobbulus, how good is your frost magic? Could you freeze a path from our ship to shore once we got close enough?"

The undead mage stared at him in disbelief, then fumbled for his notepad and began scribbling. _I couldn't come close to casting a spell that size. For myself and a few others, perhaps._

The undead started to show it to him, but Nex waved him away. "I read it while you were writing it." He frowned. Ahead the turtles were snorting and barreling, catching the cold, rotted smell of undead. The five ships of their little fleet were speeding up; like it or not, the naga had decided they'd engage here. For a moment Nex was tempted to try cutting the lines, setting his people to working the sails and turning them around to find a better place to land. But there was no guarantee they had the skill for such a maneuver, especially not with undead swimming out to them. And even if they did the five ships might not be able to communicate well enough to maneuver; true navies had flags to relay signals, and the training and discipline for extreme coordination. They had none of that.

Instead Nex turned. "Prepare for combat. We're going to storm the beach."

Most of them had already realized it, but they were so shocked that they were just standing there, staring at the swiftly approaching shore, the surf and the burning ships with their undead swarming around and atop them. Then Jocal began yelling, rushing to the entrance belowdecks.

If he judged the speed right they had about five minutes before they'd be to the first of the burning ships. At that point the battle would begin, but it certainly wouldn't end. He found Jocal's second on the ship, Kip, and waved him over. "Set the sails for the best speed you can manage. I don't want to be adrift if the undead slay the turtle towing us. If worse comes to worst we can always plough right into the beach and then leap over."

The man nodded and set the sails. Nex could see the _Swift Wind Home_, Marbrand's clipper, already catching up to its towing turtle with the wind billowing its multiple sails. The other ships seemed to be a bit slower, but they too were working their sails, their troops coming up on deck and lining up.

Nex turned his attention ahead, to the undead swarming, and wondered if it would be enough. Taking a beach against a small force could be a challenge, but against a superior force such as this one it was near suicide. The naga were fools to attempt it, and he was a fool to allow it, but there was no turning back now.

He had to get his troops ashore. "Montfere, stay with Havel and Bobbulus," he said tersely. Behind him Jocal was lining up their forces on the deck, getting them ready to line the railings and repel boarders. He raised his voice. "Jocal, your priority is to get to the beach and meet up with Marbrand."

Jocal turned, frowning. "My Lord, that sounds like the sort of order you'd give if you . . . were . . ."

Nex was already over the side.

. . . . .

The Castaway was standing at the prow of the ship, hands on his weapons, seeming eager to reach the shore. Alvin was standing beside him, gripping his handaxe and shield and wishing he dared put on full armor for a beach assault. He felt naked without it.

Especially in light of the enemy they faced.

But both their attention was torn from the seething mass of undead ahead when they saw a shape plunge from _Darkness_ and float down toward the water. Then, moving at a speed the ships couldn't hope to match he ran ahead, passing over the Vee formed by the dragon turtle towing the ship and on toward shore, lightly climbing the slope of a wave and leaping off its crest. Even from this distance Alvin could recognize Nex.

So, it seemed, could the Castaway. "So that's your fearless leader who I've heard so much about, is it? His name is Nex?"

Alvin glanced over, and saw that his companion's eyes were focused on the man running atop the water with surprising intensity. "Yes."

The elf nodded. "Of course it is."

Alvin was surprised. "Do you know him?"

"Do you?"

"Is that a dodge or are you trying to be profound?"

The Castaway ignored the question. "It looks as if he wants to attack the main host of undead alone."

. . . . .

_'All creation is doomed to end. Better it end now, with thorough obliteration from which perfection can rise anew, than to decay in slow dissolution until all the pieces are too scattered and dull to gather, forever tainting existence so nothing will ever rise perfect again.'_

_Good to know, _Nex thought. _Now shut up. I'd like to bring destruction to these undead._

_'What are you planning?'_

_Something I've done before. To draw all the undead to me and then obliterate them with a massive magical attack. It should give my people time to gain the beach._

_'Your people must be obliterated as well, and the beach you seek to conquer as if victory could have some meaning. Also your plan is flawed on many levels.'_

_I know. The last time I tried it I ended up helpless, my power depleted and fighting unconsciousness. It will be the same here, with certain death, unless you lend me your power._

_'Do you have the ability to use it?'_

Nex levitated higher, over the churning, grasping hands of undead swimming around a large, proud-masted elvish galley. _We will see. Do I use my power for the attack and turn to you when I'm weakened, or use your power and keep my for after?_

_'I predict you will need both, and death is still likely.'_

A handful of bolts composed of diseased greenish energy flew towards him from a knot of Scourge on a rise a bit to his right. Immediately following them came a wave of frostbolts, fireballs, and bolts composed of frost and fire combined. Skeletal mages, and perhaps some necromancers or acolytes of the Cult of the Damned with some talent for spellcasting. Nex dove down into the water, pushing aside a grasping undead and breaking one of its arms as he struggled to swim deeper, throwing up a shield as he did. The bolts hissed against the water, their energy depleting, but a few of the frostbolts penetrated enough to strike his shield. He felt his movements slow as chill spread through him.

But he'd learned some things from Imelda's ice arrows and his long ago battle with Elara Frostheart. He was able to find the magical chilling effects and, using power he would probably need for other things, dispel them.

Then he kicked up towards the surface, activating his levitation so he exploded out of it and was sprinting forward again by the time he landed on the waves. He'd covered half the distance, and around him undead were focusing on him, starting to gather towards him. Thus far the Scourge commander hadn't seen the danger of letting his forces clump. On the rise to his right more magical attacks came, but this time he did his best to dodge them and fed more power into his shield, turning to run directly towards those casters.

_'How have you managed to cast spells of dispelling and shielding with the energy you use? You have the discipline for it, but those matrices were meant for holy power.'_

Nex focused his whole attention on the sword for a moment. _Does that mean I could cast them with your power?_

_'Could, and probably should.'_

Nex drew from the sword, ignoring the surge of pain from holding that holy energy within him. In his frantic run he'd almost completely forgotten the pain of holding the holy relic, even though his hand was starting to smoke. As another wave of bolts came his way he threw up a second shield, dispelling the harmful effects that struck him even as they landed. NexTaeja's power melded seamlessly into the spells, though it left an odd buzzing in his head.

Then it was sand he ran atop and not water, and a wall of undead waiting ahead. He released the levitation and drew out a torpedo, one hand still tight on the sword's fused diamond hilt. He parted the first wave like a knife through butter, and as they swarmed in around him he fell into his second sight, letting him see where they were and in which direction they were moving. It took a tremendous amount of concentration to hold so many positions and patterns in his mind, but he was able to find openings to push through. On the plus side the casters on the rise had stopped hurling attacks his way.

They'd regret their hesitance.

His shield disintegrated under a score of attacks and he felt fiery lines of pain along his arms, a tugging at his back as his cloak was caught. He slammed the torpedo back behind him, shattering a hand at the wrist. With his concentration on his second sight he couldn't cast, so he simply kept dancing, striking where he could but mostly trying to get to the hill. He was vaguely aware of undead swarming all around him, until finally he was packed in so tightly that he couldn't move forward any more. There were no more openings.

The casters on their rise were less than twenty yards away.

_I can focus my fire energy into horizontally expanding rings, but I doubt I could do anything so fancy with your power. If I simply release a large amount with explosive force will it have the desired effect?_

_'You're going to need more power.'_

Nex gritted his teeth. _I'm drawing as much as I can._

_'Possibly. But not as much as I can offer. The sheath is holding back the bulk of my strength. Draw me.'_

Nex staggered, feeling hot pain and then warmth flowing down his arm as he took a serious wound, struggling with the power already inside him. _I thought you told me doing that would destroy me._

_'If you drew me all the way. Only a half a foot or so, I think. It still might kill you, with the way your body is steeped in corrupt power.'_

_No time now to think it over now._ Nex yanked on the sword, releasing almost eight inches of the blade. Power surged into him, and he drew upon his own reserves at the same time and released it all. NexTaeja screamed and the world went white.

. . . . .

Undead whipped past, scrabbling to grasp the clipper as it rode the waves toward the beach. Most of their grips were torn free, but a few managed to take hold and were climbing the side of the ship. Men stood ready to crush them as soon as they came into range.

_Darkness _and _Sylvan Lady_ were close behind, the other two ships lagging farther back, or at least they had been when last he'd checked a few minutes ago. But now Marbrand's eyes weren't on the other ships or even the undead scrabbling at his own. They were focused a few hundred yards up the beach ahead, to where that mad fool Nex had managed to push before being entirely swarmed by undead, so much so that they were even atop him, a seething pile.

Fool, the damned fool. What had possessed him to make such a heedless attack? Admittedly, it had opened the way for their ships to nearly reach the beach, thinning the undead in the way and giving them a target other than the ungainly turtles tugging their precious cargo. Marbrand had ordered the towlines to his own turtle cut as the clipper passed it, but the others still depended on those huge leviathans making it to shore.

Still his eyes remained on the seething mass, noting how they remained focused on a target in their midst. Was it possible the fool was alive? Even so, he'd clumped the undead handily, and that was a spellcaster's dream.

Or a soldier's nightmare. Buried by undead, no room to maneuver.

He turned to Lady Olivia, standing a few paces back beside her guardian Janis. "Lady, is there any-"

Olivia screamed, and her face suddenly glowed eerily, lit by some glow from behind him. He whirled in time to see a dome of white light traced through with jarring black veins, like the skin of a diseased corpse. It had been much smaller as he was turning, and as he watched in horrified fascination it grew much, much bigger.

Its growth was so fast that the undead it engulfed barely had time to react, but even as it winked out they shied back from it, and some fled entirely. Marbrand's eyes smarted, the afterimage blinding him for a few moments into a world filled with jagged cracks. The blast wave rolled over the ship a few seconds later, and Marbrand felt as if he'd been stroked by a diseased whore, soft yet ghastly.

Then a deafening grinding noise shivered the air and the ship jerked. In less than a moment he found himself flying forward over the railing, scrabbling at it and missing with his blind eyes. Then he was falling, kicking for some sort of balance, trying to get his feet beneath him. He landed hard shoulder-first in water and sand, muck spraying through the slit of his helmet and into his eyes, further blinding him. For a moment he lay stunned.

The ship had run aground. It had to have. That meant they were almost to the beach, to where hundreds of undead swarmed. Cursing he pushed to his knees, ignoring the burning pain in his left shoulder, the one he'd landed on, and tore off his helmet, scrubbing at his eyes with his hands. A moment later he was staggering in the crash of an oncoming wave, squinting ahead and tugging his broadsword free.

The first undead reached him just in time to be knocked back by his first slash, doing little damage but knocking it to the ground. He stomped down on it and missed, still struggling to see, and the thing grasped his feet and began climbing up his legs. He slammed the sharpened bottom rim of his shield down on its skull, crushing it, and took another staggering step forward. There was a weight on his back, more clutching on his feet, and he began twisting and flailing to dislodge the undead clutching at him.

A moment later Kyle was beside him, fragments of bone flying as he slammed a torpedo into the skull of the undead clinging to Marbrand's back. Marbrand completed his spin and slammed his shield into a ghoul, knocking it away, and in the follow-through drove his broadsword into the pelvic bone of a waterlogged zombie. It reeled away and came back limping, and Kyle's torpedo slammed into its reaching hand.

The fighting was furious for a few more moments as more and more of his people joined the fight, dropping down the ten or so feet into the surf. But within a few more minutes Marbrand, Kyle, and a dozen others had fought their way above the waterline. Marbrand noted the _Sylvan Lady_ grounded a hundred feet away and twenty feet farther from shore, undead swarming up the sides of the ship as Blackfinger tried to organize some sort of landing. He sent Kyle and the others out to help them, then turned to look up the beach to where that explosion of light and dark had occurred.

Everything within twenty yards of it was dust, and beyond that fragments of bone and flesh, but to Marbrand's shock in the dead center of the circle one body remained more or less intact.

Nex.

He lay, horribly still in the center of the blast radius. His clothes were black rags scattered around him, most of his flesh naked and charred and one leg twisted unnaturally beneath him. The only thing that seemed unscathed was the diamond hilted sword and the sheath covering it, still hanging around his waist from a charred belt.

Forming a near perfect circle around where the fragments became splintered and broken limbs undead raged, surging toward his still form like the sea, then falling back, only to surge forward again a little closer. At the periphery, however, some of the undead were turning away from him and starting for the beach and a more accessible enemy.

Lady Olivia moved up beside him, also staring. "Why aren't they tearing him apart?" Marbrand demanded. "Is he dead?"

Olivia shook her head sharply. "No, sir. He lives, but barely. The explosion has had an odd effect on the ground surrounding him, simultaneously consecrating it and desecrating it. The undead cannot bear to stand on that ground for long."

"We have to get to him first, then." Marbrand didn't know when he'd made that decision, but he had; hundreds of undead had been destroyed by that blast, including those on the rise that appeared to be the main commanders and casters of this Scourge force. They could have spelled defeat before any of them even reached the beach. He whirled to where the bulk of the army was still fighting its way to shore through the shallows, struggling to regroup on the beach from the scattered ships. "Blackfinger! Forget the beachhead, we have to attack!"

The big man stared at the seething undead in dismay. "We'll never break through them in time!" he shouted back. "We might not break through them at all."

Havel splashed past the tideline, water streaming from far more places than should have. Behind him Bobbulus was still struggling to reach the shallows, looking for all the world like nothing so much as a harbor float. "Olivia and I can clear a path ahead," the undead priest called as he approached. "And Bob can ward the way behind. Punching through them swiftly may be the only way to save the human."

Olivia gave the undead a suspicious look. "I thought you despised Nex."

Havel's face spasmed. Then, after a moment, his whole body convulsed. "It's his damn geas. The bastard knows how to bind undead."

"I don't like this," Olivia insisted. "We could all die going after him, and there's no assurance he'll live."

Marbrand didn't like it either. All their casters, lightly defended, putting themselves in a position to be surrounded by the Scourge? Kanat, his old captain, would've been horrified. "What choice do we have? We're sworn to him. He's our tie to Illidan."

"The men follow _you_," she insisted. "Your death will be far more devastating to the army than his."

Marbrand gave that seething Scourge host a final, desperate glance, then turned. "It has to be this way. Blackfinger, you have the recruits. Keep them in a defensive formation on whatever defensible ground you can find. Veterans, to me!" As Sons of Lothar rallied to him he raised his voice to where the dwarves stood waist deep in water, shelling knots of undead. "Falstan, keep them from packing too densely around us!"

The dwarf turned in confusion, but when he saw Marbrand's group forming up, saw Marbrand pointing to where the young lord lay helpless, he nodded and began bellowing at his mortar teams to shift their focus. Hal, running back and forth behind the front lines, was lighting short-fused sticks of something that exploded spectacularly and hurling them into the enemy ranks.

Marbrand was about to shout to him but before he could the goblin turned, seemed to size up the situation in a moment, and with a mad gleam in his eyes withdrew a bundle of the sticks, cutting the fuses-dear gods-_shorter_ as he tied them together. He lit the bundle and flung it into the seething mass of undead fighting to reach the prone young lord closest to where Marbrand's veterans were gathering.

"Get ready!" Marbrand yelled, putting his shield between himself and the coming blast. A moment later the ground bucked beneath him and a roar filled his ears.

As soon as his feet were steady beneath him he sprinted forward, batting undead out of his path with sword and shield as he made for the area Hal had cleared. Behind him came Jocal and several other men, and behind them Olivia, hands glowing. At the rear, a brief glimpse in the chaos, came Havel with darkness streaming from his fingers and Bobbulus casting some sort of line of frost on the ground behind them. Anywhere undead touched that line they staggered and their forward movement stopped, rooted.

The undead pushed back into the open area on all sides, and for a moment Marbrand felt himself pressed back by sheer bulk. Then Light streamed around him and the undead flinched away. The Light cut an arrow in front that he ran down desperately, panting in exertion and breath misting in front of him.

He cut down a fleshy monstrosity that was taller and leaner than the abominations he'd encountered before, which let out a foul sort of fog with every blow he hacked into it. When finally he was able to cut past it he found himself staggering, soothing warmth and crawling feelings of uncleanness warring in his legs. He took several steps before he realized he was on the consedesecrated ground Nex's explosion had created. He turned, sword ready, and watched as the rest of his force pushed through, stepping gingerly wearing looks of distaste. Particularly Olivia, who looked as if she'd be sick.

Around them, the hole they'd punched through the undead ranks closed, and the surging tide pushed forward another two feet before surging back. Then three feet forward and barely any backward movement; Nex's spell was waning.

And here they were, caught in the middle.

Well now, this was an interesting dilemma. They'd fought their way here to this blessed/cursed ground to save Nex, but now that they were here they were in the same predicament. Olivia was wan, the Light issuing from her hands beginning to flicker feebly. Havel was shambling along, almost as lifelessly as an animate dead, while occasional spats of shadow flew from him to explode the heads of the closest Scourge attackers. Far too slowly. Bobbulus still held half a dozen feet of the way behind, but behind that patch of rooting ice the undead were massing once more.

Olivia pushed past him and ran forward the still-considerable distance to the center of the circle, kneeling at Nex's side. Her hands glowed, but she'd only begun to work on him when she gasped and recoiled, pressing a palm to her mouth in horror.

Marbrand stumbled forward after her, feeling the weird soothing and fouling energy tingling farther and farther up his legs. By the time he reached Olivia she was gathering more Light into her hands and preparing to work on him.

"Not the Light!" Havel screeched, coming up behind her. "Can't you see how his demon skin has been burned away? I have salves and unguents among my supplies which might help him, if we can get him back to the ship."

The cleric frowned. "What do you mean, demon skin? The Light is far more effective than an alchemist's concoctions."

"Not with what he's done to himself. Marbrand, take him. We have to get out of here."

Marbrand obligingly sheathed his sword and loosened the straps on his shield, pulling it off his arm and slinging it across his back. Then he knelt and threw his cloak around the young lord, carefully gathering him up in his arms. His efforts twisted the youth's leg with a sickening pop, but Nex remained still as death in his arm save for shallow, quick breaths hissing between his teeth. For all Nex's small size even so his weight was shocking; he couldn't weigh more than a hundred pounds. At times Marbrand's shield felt heavier.

He turned and looked out at the circle of undead. "Get out of here how?" he asked, laughing helplessly. Gods of Light, what had they gotten themselves into?

Olivia simply started forward, leading the way back to where the others waited. Alvin and Jocal were trying to organize a wedge to hold against the Scourge as they surged ever farther forward, but the weight of the undead was too great and kept pushing them back into the ever-shrinking circle of safe ground. Somewhere in the midst of that throng of undead explosions were hurling up limbs and torn parts, but it seemed to do nothing to stem the tide.

Then, from a short distance away, the tide parted. Scaly bulks pushed the undead back, massively muscled arms swinging tridents and odd long-hafted hammers with triangle heads pushing the undead back. A dozen massive figures pushed forward sinuously as if swimming through the undead.

The naga didn't seem slowed by the press, for all its savagery. Their hides were scored and bled blue and purple in some places, and the fin along one's back was torn away. But the naga couldn't be tripped up like a human or other two-legged creature, and the tails they slithered on were so thick and heavy that they easily snapped the bones of any undead trying to hold them. In front those massive arms could shatter anything which came in reach of their weapons, powerful sweeping blows that sent frail skeletal forms flying.

Eventually the undead seemed to realize, or perhaps some Scourge commander remained to give orders, because the unarmed undead began backing away, giving room for those with weapons or the ghouls with their claws to come, striking from the sides and behind. But this happened only as the naga breached the circle and slithered to safety.

"I wasn't expecting you," Marbrand said frankly as Sajav led the huge creatures forward.

"The human representsss our only means of contacting our lady," the naga said. He looked over Nex critically and his frills shot out, shaking as he hissed in what seemed almost dismay. "It isss bad for him."

Marbrand nodded. "Havel thinks he can help him. Can you clear the way back to our ships?"

"We will aid you in your plight. Hold the way behind and we will do the ressst."

Marbrand nodded wearily and ordered his men behind. The spellcasters did the brunt of the work as the naga pushed their way forward. It wasn't all so simple, and before they reached their companions still holding the beach he stepped over two still naga forms, dead before Olivia could get to them, and he left three of his own behind as well, to add to the few they'd lost fighting their way here.

Not as costly as it could have been, but still a high price to pay to bring one man out.

Blackfinger led a sortie when they drew near, clearing a temporary corridor to allow them to stagger through. Even the naga seemed grateful for the reprieve. As the big man fell in beside him Marbrand asked the difficult question. "Can we win?"

His friend sighed. "They don't seem to be gaining reinforcements, and they have to have already lost hundreds, but their numbers still nearly equal ours and our strength is wearing out. As good as we've trained the recruits this is their first battle and they're on the verge of breaking. I think we should get back to the ships. _Darkness _and _Swift Wind Home_ are fairly close to each other. We can hold them with less men than trying to guard the beach, give others a chance to rest." He turned a severe look down at Nex's blackened face. "He lives?"

"I don't know." Marbrand was aware of little as they made their way back to his cutter, the recruits withdrawing with commendable order behind them, until they could scale the ropes a few men had had the foresight to lower down from the rails in order to disembark. He watched as Nex was hauled up, limp and frightening in his state, before finally turning back to where his weary recruits held the line between the two ships, keeping the small area clear.

They'd only just set foot on Northrend and it was already a disaster. Was their expedition doomed to end before it had even begun?


	14. Arrival

Malfurion: Hey guys I'm back with weird chicken wings and bear feet but I'm neutral so I can't help you with your Horde troubles, not even if they come and kill my wife right in front of me. Peace is more important than petty rivalries.

Oh what's that, they're slaughtering everyone in Ashenvale unchecked while I just sit here? Sorry I'm neutral you'll have to fend for yourselves.

What's that? Thrall is also "neutral" but he owns Alliance all over the place? Well shame on him! I'm going to have some stern words for him when I meet him for beers later tonight, I'll tell you what.

What? No I am _not_ working FOR THE HORDE!

Chapter Thirteen

Arrival

Marbrand pulled back from the press, panting, into the steadily shrinking space between _Darkness_ and _Swift Wind Home_. He was required to wade into water almost up to his knees for a reprieve, but it still took him uncomfortably close to where the line guarding against Scourge coming from the deep water held.

The air was still thick with choking smoke, and it was added to by patches to either side of the ships. The Scourge had taken to carrying flaming brands of wood from the other burning ships to try to set the two the Sons of Lothar still defended ablaze. The other three ships of the fleet were being desperately held by parties on the decks, struggling to keep them from going up in flames, but the main concentration of undead came where the Sons were also concentrated.

On _Darkness_ the threat was less, since it was in deeper water, and also Ilinar was on the deck using his fledgling powers to put out the fires. Bobbulus was doing the same to far better effect on Marbrand's own ship. And they were aided by the soaking hulls of the ships and their sullen refusal to burn near the waterline, while any undead that managed to carry or fling their fires to the decks where they could catch hold found their fires quickly extinguished.

Beyond these flaming attacks the undead had withdrawn, striking in small clumps from all directions, trying to keep the defenders occupied and frantic without wasting too many Scourge forces. They were flinging anything they could at the defenders, mostly rocks and burning boards. Blackfinger had been arguing for a sortie for almost an hour now, and he was feeling inclined to let it happen; best to take the fight to the undead while they still had their strength.

When it took place Marbrand would be there on the front line, giving his men heart, but for now he needed rest, particularly water and maybe some food. He climbed the rope latter which hung down from _Swift Wind Home_'s deck, more laboriously than he would've liked, and at the top soft feminine hands reached out to help him up.

Lady Olivia. She was stronger than she looked, but still the gesture was more a token than any true aid. Still Marbrand was weary enough that he accepted even that gratefully. When he was on deck she handed him a waterskin, which he drank from eagerly. "My thanks, lady."

The cleric gave a gracious dip of her head, then turned her gaze out at the fighting. "Surely it must end soon," she said quietly.

"That will depend more on the enemy than on us at this point. Their commander means to draw the fighting out, tire us." He handed the skin back. "How fare you?"

"Well. The Light hasn't abandoned me yet, and there are fewer wounded to deal with now that the fighting has eased."

"And our most grievously wounded?" Marbrand asked intently.

She looked away. "Still lives, but has not noticeably improved. Havel continues to put all his efforts to healing him. Strength that could be aiding many of your soldiers."

Marbrand chose to ignore that. "I thank you for all that you do, Lady. I mean to join Blackfinger in a sortie after some rest, so you should prepare for more wounded."

Blue eyes lifted to search his face. They didn't shy from the scarred flesh or patchy hair. "You need your rest, sir. I can see weariness writ deep." Marbrand made no reply, and after a moment she reached a glowing hand up to rest atop his bare head, murmuring a soft but fervent prayer. He could feel Light pouring into him, easing the aches of his muscles and lifting some of the weight of weariness from his shoulders. "Then go in the Light, and know I hope for your safe return."

Marbrand stepped away, suddenly embarrassed. With a stiff bow to her he moved to the ladder and hurried down. Blackfinger was waiting when he arrived. The horses on the still housed belowdecks in the big cargo cog would have been of great benefit to this sortie, and other attacks, but they had no means of getting them off the ship as yet, and couldn't take the time while the fighting raged. So they formed up in the familiar wedge formation, Marbrand in the lead with his friend beside him.

Lifting his sword, he ran for where the fighting was thickest, and at his shout the recruits there parted to let him scatter the score or so undead in his passage, making for where the greater part of the enemy force was drawn back, hurling things or simply waiting for the order from their commander to attack.

. . . . .

The whiteness remained. Not the indescribable agony that had first assailed him but a sort of fuzzy blankness, preventing him from sinking into the regenerative trance and scattering any coherent thought he tried to form. He'd fallen unconscious before, but never experienced anything like this. There was no pain, and that scared him because he knew there should be. But he didn't know why he knew, or what he should know, or anything else.

So he drifted in that white sea, fumbling for pieces that slipped out of his grasp. All during that time he was accompanied by a distant something, like ringing in his ears if he had ears or knew what they were, or a scream at the edge of hearing.

Eventually fuzziness was replaced by worry, then concern, then panic as he tried to find himself and instead found only the blank whiteness. As he fumbled he brushed against pain, and at first it was so terrible that he recoiled from it. Then he realized, instinctively more than through any cogent thought, that the only way to escape where he was involved sinking into that pain. He reached, and it answered willingly, flooding into his mind and further shattering his thoughts.

But nothing else came beside the pain, save that ever-present distant screaming. He remained in the white place, unable to think, unable to wonder why he couldn't think save that there was a wrongness to it.

After an eternity the pain blazed, and with it came a weight where before he'd been weightless. More wrongness, but at the same time recognition that the weight belonged, even if it should not be so unresponsive.

His body. He could feel it after a fashion, but he couldn't move. He tried, and the only result was more pain. He tried to focus his thoughts and each time stabs of agony shot through, fragmenting his mind. Still he continued, continued, until finally he stumbled upon, not a thought, but an image. A hideous face peering down at him, looking at that face and feeling fear in a primal sense, fear and hunger and discomfort as he wailed for someone kind to find him.

But there was no kindness. The hideous figure cackled at him, poked and prodded and cut his soft skin with cruel clawed hands, and he could do nothing but thrash helplessly.

Helpless. And now he couldn't even thrash. His body was nothing but a weight, trying to drag him back down to the whiteness.

In a way the image, the primal half-memory, was more terrible than the pain. But like the pain he clung to it, sought deeper within it, until finally through it he found his regenerative trance and the familiar terror, horror, and misery that accompanied it. And as the trance went from mindless strength of emotion to the thoughts he gradually began to find, to piece together, he realized that the screaming he heard wasn't from his own mind. It was a long, long time after that before he had the presence of mind to realize what it was.

It was NexTaeja. Even though he wasn't physically touching the sword the holy weapon's rage was so intense that it was seeking to reach him in spite of its containment within the sheath. Nex lay in his trance, unable to do anything about the distant, silent scream. It became more and more irritating as eternity passed, and he finally made a conscious effort to begin restoring his body's movement.

It took longer than he should have. The trance had restored nothing of his body, nor of his power, and only begun the healing of his mind. Every time he tried to draw shadows agony stabbed through his thoughts, shattering them, and he barely had the strength to keep his heart beating and his breath hissing in and out, processes he was barely aware of.

Through sheer determination he finally managed to get a finger on the hilt.

_'—fool! You fool! You fool! You fool!'_

Nex winced against the storm, which did nothing for his own barely held-together thoughts. _I can hear you now. Care to elaborate?_

The response nearly knocked him senseless once more. _'Do you know nothing of the schools of magic? Do you try to combine fire and arcane? And those two schools of magic aren't mutually annihilating like Light and shadow! You tried to release your power alongside mine and they imploded together, destroying each other and reality itself where they met! You fool! You fool! You-'_

Nex's head swam as if he was being continuously doused by scalding water. _All right! So I can't use your power after all._

_'You can't use it at the same time as your own power, fool! And you're going to have to learn how to cast holy matrices and channel the power without damaging your own body. If you even recover from this.'_

_How do I manage that? Holy power has some rather pronounced negative effects on me._

_'That's _your_ problem, mortal! I had enough problems keeping the backlash from slagging the top two-thousandths of an inch of my __blade!'_

_Two-thousandths of an inch is-_

_More of my ultimate capacity for power than you'll be able to wield in your entire lifetime. I almost wish you _had_ killed yourself! You fool! You fool! Y-"_

Nex released the blade and let his hand fall nearly an inch away, panting weakly.

The sword was being an asshole about it, but he _was_ a fool. What had possessed him to think he could wield Light alongside his own power? That implosion, when the two powers collided and annihilated each other, he had felt that in every cell of his body. No matter that he could've killed himself, he was wondering how he _hadn't_.

But self-recrimination would have to wait. He was alive, if barely, and conscious, if barely. He could feel in his clenched left hand the Illidari stone, and thank the gods he didn't believe in that he'd somehow instinctively kept hold of it, or he'd certainly be dead. It provided no power, of course, since Stormrage was being withholding, and he feared to even try drawing shadows. There was almost no magic remaining in his broken body, and what did remain was oddly out of whack, resisting his efforts to manipulate it.

He gave that up quickly. Perhaps he'd never cast again, or perhaps he'd eventually be able to restore his demon skin spell and begin healing. As it was the only signal his body sent him was pain, almost no sensation. He tried to activate his second sight and blanked out for a moment, and he decided not to try again. His skin was coated with something thick and oily, his left leg feeling wrong in a profound way. If he had to guess he'd say it was broken, perhaps mangled or even amputated. He'd heard veterans missing limbs say that for days afterwards they could feel the limb, even move it although it didn't exist anymore. For some the agony of whatever injury caused its loss never left them.

That was all he was able to think for the time being, and even it exhausted him. He slipped back into a place that combined the fuzzy whiteness with the horrific living memories of his trance. Every now and again he approached consciousness, hearing voices, noises, sometimes shouting.

Until finally the shadows began trickling into him. Not from any conscious effort but of their own accord. He couldn't do anything with them but let them pass through his body, where the energy would be needed. At first the pain surged until he blacked out, the shadow energy clashing with the remaining holy energy within him and driving it out. Then it began suffusing him more completely.

Eventually his ears heard voices, a language he dimly recognized as Thalassian. Muttering to itself. He tried his second sight, narrowing it and focusing it in front of him, and although it made his head pound he was able to take in a few details.

"Havel," he croaked. Moving his mouth hurt.

"Shut up. I've got some unguent that should help your lips." More pain, faint sensation against his face. Then something was pressed into his mouth and he found himself gulping down a liquid that burned and froze all at once. His eyes would've bulged if he'd still had them. The torrent down his throat ceased and he began choking, coughing weakly.

"What happened?" he managed.

Something cool was dabbed onto his lips, around his nostrils. "What happened is you blew yourself up. Don't ask me what you did or how you managed it, but I've seen archmages put on a less impressive show. You came closer to death than I've ever seen anyone come, and I've seen people die and be reanimated."

"Shadow, and light. Imploded."

"Yes, and with far more energy than either could manage alone, I'd wager. You left an area of ground around you for fifty yards that was both consecrated and desecrated. Don't ask me how that was possible either. In fact you shouldn't have waken up for days, if you ever did."

Nex tried to speak and speech failed him. A moment later Havel rested something against his right hand. "A souvenir. I need to go help the other wounded now. Marbrand's glorious charge is still in progress."

The undead's presence faded from the room, leaving him alone. He sank back into whiteness and dark dreams.

An eternity later he forced himself awake and forced his second sight to extend a bit farther, almost two feet. He was on a ship, judging by the hull near his head. On a flat bunk with furs beneath and above him, keeping him reasonably warm. Some potion or another had been spread over his skin everywhere, one of Havel's alchemy concoctions.

The thing Havel had left by his hand, resting atop the furs, was a scrap of metal. A fragment of his armor, thin and corroded. If the armor had kept any of the qualities imbued when it was Lightforged the blast must have destroyed it utterly, which this little scrap certainly suggested.

Well, who needed armor when he could see attacks coming? Assuming he'd ever be able to truly see again.

Beside the ruined scrap was NexTaeja, still in its sheath resting atop his legs with the hilt near his hand, neither one seeming the worse for wear, which made them unique among all his other possessions, his body included. He could still hear the sword screaming in incoherent rage, and in a surge of annoyance struggled to move his arm enough to push the thing away. Every movement hurt, and he was weak as a starving kitten, but eventually he managed to get it sliding. A moment later he heard a clatter as it fell off the bed.

Marbrand came in soon after that, out of his armor but bloody and filthy and looking in terrible condition. He was wearing furs over a sweatstained tunic and breeches, holding a bit of dried fish in his hands, toying with it. "Awake at last," he said. His eyes fell on NexTaeja on the ground beside the bed and he smiled mirthlessly. "Finally let it go I see."

Nex tried to speak and his voice came out raspy, his throat and larynx burned and tortured. "Surprised I still had it."

The burned knight scowled. "You moved for the first time when Havel tried to take it away. It's how we knew you still had some fight in you."

He let his second sight wink out, weary and broken. "The enemy."

"Still out there, but growing less and less numerous. We must've taken out their leader, because in the last few hours their behavior has become more random and uncoordinated."

"Losses?"

"Thirty-four so far, including three naga, twenty-four recruits, and seven of my veterans." Marbrand's voice became bitter. "Barely half remain of those I brought from Outland. I'd thought to bring them home, not to their graves. They died to bring you back."

Of course they did. It had nothing to do with nearly a thousand undead guarding a beach the naga were driving their ships toward. "Is that an accusation, Marbrand?"

"Damn straight it's an accusation! What the hell was that?"

Nex struggled to raise himself into some semblance of a less vulnerable pose and failed completely, barely moving at all. "That was me employing a tactic I have used before to great effect."

"Really? Because it looked more to me like you running alone into a bunch of enemies and blowing yourself up like a fucking goblin!"

"The weakness wasn't in the plan but in the execution."

The burned knight snorted in blank disbelief. "It looked to me like the weakness was _entirely_ in the plan."

"Either way, your anger is unwarranted. I must have killed nearly three hundred undead in that blast, including the Scourge leaders and spellcasters."

"You weren't supposed to go out there at all! Don't you know anything about military tactics? Might against might, magic against magic."

Nex quirked his lips into a half smile, ignoring the pain as they cracked, the wet sensation of blood trickling down his cheek. "I could lay waste to any number of mighty enemies."

"Yes, and a single archer could put an arrow in your back. You miss the underlying point, my Lord. You defend us from enemy spellcasters and cast offensively, we keep enemy soldiers from getting close enough to you to provide a distraction."

"I understand the underlying point perfectly," Nex replied, trying to keep his tone even. "No enemy is going to put an arrow in my back, and I have more than spells at my disposal. I'm wasted relegated to lobbing magical attacks from the back of the engagement. Besides, you have other spellcasters."

"Three! For an army this size that's woefully inadequate." Nex simply stared at him, and Marbrand gritted his teeth. "You're looking at this only from your perspective. The army needs you to stick to your role. I can't afford to trust the undead casters, and Olivia has barely any offensive capabilities, even against the Scourge. You are the only offensive caster this army can rely on. If you're running amok in the midst of the Scourge forces or, even better, blowing yourself up and forcing us to risk ourselves saving you, you can't employ your abilities with any strategic value to the battle as a whole. _I _can't coordinate with you to best effect."

Nex felt his breath rasping in his lungs, even the effort of limited speech getting him out of breath. He wanted to be alone, wanted to sink back into the whiteness, but Marbrand refused to relent. "You need to think of the army in the future, Lord Nex."

"I can recall few times I've been scolded like an errant child. Certainly never when I actually was one." That made him think of the imp's tormenting presence, and he flinched.

"Then quit rushing recklessly into the middle of enemy forces. Beyond your use as a spellcaster you're also our main tie to Illidan's army. We can't afford to lose you."

"The risk of that hasn't passed just yet." Nex tried to say more, but instead he was swallowed by oblivion.

. . . . .

The battle had raged fierce for a time after the Scourge forces lost their cohesion. They'd blindly attacked, coming at the nearest Sons of Lothar with no sort of plan other than mindless destruction. From that point it had been easy to draw them out of position, into traps. To snare them, to outmaneuver and flank them, and finally to begin tearing the remaining knots of undead apart.

There were still a few scattered undead, several hundred yards out and apparently far enough away that they weren't aware of the Sons of Lothar without being commanded to attack them. Blackfinger was leading a party to hunt them down, and it was interesting to see how the undead went from passively standing or ambling about to aggressively attacking when his party came within a hundred yards.

Alvin was leaning heavily against the railing of the _Swan_, watching it all and wishing he could be part of it. Things had been more exciting earlier on, when the Scourge had been trying to burn his ship. He'd even had to lead an attack into chest-deep water to where the undead were going about trying to start fires along the hull in a more intelligent fashion. But now that things were winding down he and the small force he'd kept behind to protect the ship would probably be called to start working. He should probably have the lads and lasses begin lowering the boats and loading them with supplies.

"Can I get a rope?"

His head whipped straight downward to see someone standing in the ankle-deep water at the prow, staring up at him past the cowl of a hood. "Castaway?"

"Hey there."

"Where the hell have you been?"

The elf swayed slightly. "I'll take the rope. No sense shouting up at you."

Alvin went over to the nearest capstan and began unwinding the heavy line, lowering it down. Once it was long enough he locked thing in place. Then, seeing the Castaway's condition, he gripped the rope and began pulling it up hand over hand, helping his friend climb. The Castaway's progress was slow and labored, but when he reached the railing he vaulted it with surprising agility.

Alvin stared as the Castaway as he climbed lightly up over the railing, staggering slightly as he landed on the sloping deck. "All right. Where did you come from?"

"Quel'thalas, initially."

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

"If you've been to Quel'thalas you wouldn't think it was." The Castaway slumped to the deck with a groan, fingering a scrap of bloody cloth on his arm. It wasn't the only torn and tattered bit of cloth the Castaway wore; the elf's cloak was torn to shreds, half of it missing from the bottom and left side. But after a moment of staring Alvin realized with horror that the torn thing the Castaway was toying with wasn't cloth of all, but a strip of skin torn free.

He rushed forward, tearing at his own shirt for a strip of cloth. "Good gods, man, what happened to you?"

The elf smiled grimly, a flash of teeth in the predawn glow. "The undead seem to have gotten less coordinated over the last few hours, haven't they?"

It took a moment for his weary mind to register that as he tied the cloth about his friend's arm. "The Scourge commander? You slew him?"

The Castaway sucked in his breath, gritting his teeth in pain as Alvin pulled the makeshift bandage tight. "It, more like. Didn't turn out to be as easy as I'd hoped."

"Damn straight it wouldn't! How the hell did you even reach him through the Scourge ranks?"

"Very, very carefully." The elf's blue-gray eyes were drooping. "I may need a healer. The skin on my left leg is sloughing off. One of those ghouls must have given me something."

Alvin smiled, though the situation wasn't at all funny. "Always assume a ghoul will give you a disease. Wear protection."

"Not my ghoul," the elf whispered weakly. Then his head slumped down, thumping against the railing he leaned against.

Alvin called a few of the lads over, and together they picked the elf up and climbed back down with him, taking him the hundred or so yards to where _Swift Wind Home_ was beached.

Alvin wasn't sure he could believe his friend had managed to take down the Scourge commander, but it was a damn good story even so, so he went ahead and told it to the others as they stood around watching the undead Havel get to work on the elf. But they didn't have long to chat before Marbrand came stomping up from below and got them to work.

. . . . .

Over the next day they managed to get the ships sorted out and unloaded, creating a camp on the beach west of the shallow, ice-clogged stream dumping into the tiny bay. Marbrand sent some of his scouts climbing the cliffs there, and up on the snow-packed heights the scouts reported a vista of sweeping white plain with clumps of trees and brush and meandering rivulets flowing everywhere. North there were signs of glaciers and mountains, far in the distance. On the eastern side of the ravine a forest of hardy conifers stretched out of sight, vast and primeval.

Luckily no Scourge were waiting at the tops of those cliffs, or their ascent may have gone from difficult to impossible. Still he kept people up their to watch for approaching undead just in case.

He gave the rest of his people the night to rest, and the next morning ordered them to begin hauling everything up the cliffs in preparation for setting out. Because of the priests their wounded were in surprisingly good condition, all but the most wounded and the least back on their feet. Those with superficial wounds would have to grit and bear it until the priests had a chance to rest, while the more wounded were being kept aboard _Swift Wind Home_ until they could heal. Marbrand had left a dozen of the sturdier recruits there under the leadership of Kyle to watch over them and Havel, who was remaining behind to help. Once they were in good enough condition to travel he expected them to catch up on the horses he was leaving atop the cliffs.

Getting the horses, and all the other supplies, up those cliffs would have been impossible without the ingenuity of Hal and the aid of the dwarves. The goblin managed to think up a system of wooden cogs carved out of wood salvaged from the ships into pulleys, allowing even the horses to be safely lifted to the ground above, although the poor beasts weren't happy about it.

By the time they had everyone and everything up and were preparing to set out another problem arose. They had prepared well, and their supplies were more numerous than backs to carry them.

"We could leave the lumber behind," Blackfinger suggested. "It's the most unwieldy and least potential useless."

"We'll need that lumber to keep us warm if we get to a place where nothing grows we can burn," Marbrand said in grim response, looking at the pile with dismay. The dwarves had gone ahead and continued dismantling the ships Hal had taken his cogs from, and with the lumber they'd taken on board it made a significant pile. "Although maybe not this much."

"Even without the lumber it's a lot to carry. As well as the supplies we need and our weapons and armor. It can't be done. Normally we'd use wagons or carts, but the conditions here are too unreliable. Soft snow, cracked ice, mud. They'd be getting bogged down every step."

Falstan spoke up. "What about sleds?"

They glanced over at the dwarf. "You mean like kids play with?" Marbrand asked.

The dwarf spat. "Bah! We use 'em up in the higher passes where no amount o' shoveling will keep the roads clear o' snow, with our rams towing 'em they move along just fine. Build 'em of lumber, pile the supplies on top o' them. We can dismantle 'em and burn the wood as we need."

"That could work," Hal admitted. The little goblin was so bundled in furs only his nose poked out, red at the tip fading to swarthy green farther down. "Never thought of sleds before, but then again I don't hang out in snow often, right? Kezan is nice and tropical, ain't it?"

Marbrand sighed. "Let's get to work, then. I don't suppose we'll be done in time to leave before nightfall?"

"Nah," the goblin said cheerfully. "Even with these ungodly fast dwarves working at it. But I'll tell ya what, give me some of your recruits and I'll get a system going that'll use their efforts most efficiently. Nothing to it."

Marbrand watched the goblin and dwarves begin organizing the recruits to sorting out the wood and building sawhorses, while some were sent down to the ships for nails that had been discarded when the ships were dismantled. After he was satisfied with it he began organizing the camp they'd set for the night and sent Alvin to do a more thorough scouting of the area.

He was surprised when Ilinar, who'd been hanging around watching, offered to accompany the scouts. "Don't you want to stay beside your master?" he asked the boy.

Ilinar blinked. "Who, Nex? He's not my master."

Marbrand thought of all the time the young lord had spent training the boy. If Ilinar didn't think Nex was his master then what _could_ he possibly think? "Still, don't you want to stay beside him?"

The half-elf child shrugged. "He's barely alive and in no condition to do any training. Besides, he freaks me out without his blindfold; his eyes are just empty sockets without eyelids, except I can see black flames burning in them sometimes. You should get him another blindfold."

Marbrand shot a helpless look Alvin's way. The scout shrugged too, then clapped the boy on the shoulder. "Get some warmer furs, lad, we leave soon." He turned away, and that odd elf stowaway followed him as he went to go gather a scouting party. Marbrand still wasn't clear on exactly where the elf had come from, but Alvin kept spreading those damnfool tales that he'd been the one to destroy the Scourge commander. Ilinar glanced back at him once then trotted off to get warmer clothing.

It troubled him to see the boy show so little loyalty to Nex. But then again Nex hadn't shown much loyalty to the boy, either, or to anyone else for that matter. Still, there was something off about Ilinar Montfere, and it wasn't just the unusual feel of the frost magics he wielded. After the undead had gone witless the attempts to burn the ships had stopped, and Marbrand had seen Ilinar out among the recruits with a torpedo in either hand, going at the undead with surprising viciousness.

He was going to get himself killed if he kept on like that. But what could anyone do about it if Nex himself didn't take him in hand?

Nex. There was another concern; his improvement had been slight, if anything, and it was uncanny to see the obvious agony the man was in, and yet hear how every word he spoke was flat and emotionless. He was going to remain behind with the other seriously wounded, but Marbrand was afraid even so he wouldn't heal in time to join them when they followed the army north. Nex didn't seem the slightest bit concerned, and had calmly informed him that no matter how long it took for him to heal, he'd catch up because he didn't need to rest.

Last Marbrand had seen him Havel had been fitting a cast for his broken leg, one sturdy enough to walk on. The young lord was preparing for a long trek, alone and without aid, in spite of the fact that at the moment he could barely move.

But there was nothing to be done about it. If Ilinar was uncanny than Nex himself was inconceivably strange. There was no predicting his actions.

Still, the next morning when Marbrand hitched the sleds to the horses and set out, the recruits tromping along behind, he found himself looking back often, anxious.

They had a general idea of where they were going, but if Nex didn't catch up to them then the task of finding Illidan's army would become far, far more difficult. Perhaps impossible.

. . . . .

Nex limped slowly across the circle of devastation. The cast Havel had set around his whole leg provided the support his bone no longer provided, and allowed him to ignore the fact that that bone didn't seem to be healing fast enough. He'd endured broken bones and knew they took longer than other injuries to heal, but nothing took so long as burns and those healed fairly quickly for him.

Good thing he didn't have to think of it.

He could still feel residual traces of power from the implosion, and at his waist NexTaeja was once again raging so vocally he could almost hear it if he tried. Nex ignored all of that, forgetting what a fool he was or how he had destroyed all his possessions and had been forced to steal an officer's uniform from Alvin. It was harder to forget the agony that jolted up his leg with every step, or the searing pain of burned skin tugging and twisting, burned and stretched muscles protesting, or the splitting headache that had been with him ever since the implosion.

Beneath his feet, one fur-wrapped and the other in its cast, the shattered limbs making a carpet on the ground gave way to fragments, then to dust, and finally he crouched beside the few sad remnants his possessions had left behind when he was carried away. He traced his finger through the dust beneath them, dragging it this way and that, until it finally snagged. His breath caught.

The cloth was burned, holes pierced right through it in multiple places. Of its usual three feet squared it now boasted barely six inches, and in many places the cloth was brittle as if the slightest touch would send it crumbling away. As carefully as he could he fed the power to open the dimensional pocket portal. As he'd feared, only those six inches became a hole into his storage space, but at least the holes in the cloth didn't remain patches of reality; withdrawing anything would've been impossible then.

It would still be impossible to withdraw his pack, which was far bigger than the hole, but he was able, with careful reaching through with one hand or with levitation, to take out all the remaining torpedoes, the sacks of gold, and then begin opening his pack and withdrawing items. The night elf relic which would produce light, the little empty vial that could hold a demon lord, his bandages, a few odds and ends, some mementos from Lynda's cave which he kept for pragmatism's sake. The Aran signet ring, taken from the corpse of Puros Lightfinder what seemed a lifetime ago. Nex stared at it for a time, then on a whim put it on; its power was trivial, but it still provided some minor use.

The rest he deemed useless, or at least not worth the effort of taking. He spent a few minutes trying to compress the pack to where it would fit out the hole, and eventually gave up and decided he'd just make a new one if needed. At last he let the portal close, watching the burst of power crumble its weak places until only a few scraps remained. He gathered those scraps and put them in a pocket.

More mementos. If he'd only kept the hilt of the Blinkstrike, and some bit of Rachondimus's whip that Lightfinder had flung into the abyss. He couldn't seem to hold onto possessions. _But you'll never leave me_, he mockingly told the sword, touching it just long enough to convey the sentiment and taking his finger away before its rage could overwhelm him.

Task complete, he gathered up his possessions and limped towards where Havel was waiting at the base of the cliffs. The others had already climbed up. "You shouldn't be walking," the undead priest said as he arrived.

"It can't be helped. We've wasted too much time already."

Havel frowned, pulling dried lips tight. "You don't understand. I mean it's physically impossible that you're walking right now."

Nex shifted his possessions into a bundle on his back and grabbed hold of the rope leading up to the camp above. "You realize how absurd it is to tell someone that something they're obviously doing is impossible?"

The undead snorted, blowing dust into the frozen air. "Okay, then. It _should_ be impossible. You broke that leg only six days ago."

Nex answered by beginning to climb, leaving the priest to follow.

In truth he _was_ concerned, but not for the reasons Havel described. He'd expected his leg to be nearly mended by now. His demon skin was up and he was feeding constant power into it, but the power he fed into his leg wasn't healing it the way it should have. In fact the bone still appeared to be fractured, according to his second sight, and every time he checked he saw no noticeable improvement.

It was worrying him, and far more than he would care to admit even to himself. His left leg had been odd for a long time now. In minor ways, easily dismissible, but he couldn't help but remember Montfere's voice, piping the question over and over in his mind. "What's wrong with your leg?"

What _was_ wrong with his leg? A minor problem seemed to have become a major one, and it was a problem time wasn't healing the way it had everything else in his life.

No, he should just give it a few more days. It would heal like it always had. Why shouldn't it, since he was constantly feeding his power into healing the break.

. . . . .

The Castaway sat next to the fire, weapons out on his fur cloak as he rubbed oil on the whetstone he'd borrowed from Alvin. Hacking at bone and rusted metal was hard on even the finest edges, and his weapons had never been more than adequate.

The fires burned bright. They'd taken camp in a stretch of forest that extended to the southwest, away from the direction they were going, but for the night it provided a meager windbreak and the wood to feed fires to warm the sentries and returning scouts. There was little fear of fire within the trees being visible from a distance, but who knew what eyes the Lich King had in his own domain.

"Returned from ranging, I see."

The Castaway looked up, started to glance back to his sword, then gave a jolt of surprise and looked up again. Of all those he'd expected to greet him, particularly so late in the night, the last was the former Scarlet Crusader, Janis. The monk had put a great deal of time into cutting fur down into strips which he wrapped tightly about himself then tied tight, giving him warmth without restricting his movements. Instead of the deep cowl others used to give their faces some shelter and warmth from the wind he wore a sort of mask, a length of cloth wrapped around head and face so only his eyes were visible, peering out like pools of blackness. The Castaway found himself wishing he'd had the foresight to do something of the sort; he felt unbearably clumsy in his heavy furs and cloak.

"About a half hour ago, but yes, I'm back."

The monk motioned to the log beside him in silent question, and the Castaway shrugged and got back to his work. The monk sat. "I notice you head out earlier than the other scouts, and return later. You always look exhausted, as if you've gone far, but you never seem content with the distance."

"Marbrand doesn't know exactly where Illidan's army is. Someone has to find it for him."

"Yes, but it is said the man who takes two steps forward and one back goes thrice the distance of the man who takes a single step forward, and accomplishes no more."

The Castaway snorted. "Obviously."

"And yet you are doing just that."

For a moment he was tempted to relent, then he decided that would be no fun. "I'm a bit confused."

"It is simple. You may walk twenty miles in a day, but if half those miles are to return to the group you left then you accomplish no more than those who go only ten. The army will move at the speed it moves, and you will explore what needs exploring in two days instead of one with no harm to anyone."

"Unless I find out we're going the wrong way, or we would've passed signs of them by entirely. Or I find them and we decide to push on rather than camping."

For a moment he thought the monk would further lecture him, but then the man smiled. "You are eager to meet up with your kin. Reunions?"

The Castaway smiled back, but probably not for the same reasons. "Kind of. I'm just looking forward to the opportunity to settle a score."

"A score?" Janis repeated.

"Against the Scourge. I lost everything after they invaded Quel'thalas." He waved his whetstone. "Which is why I'm, you know, sharpening my weapons."

Janis shook his head in reproof. "A man who tallies scores rarely finds that he's come out ahead."

"Then he needs to spend less time keeping records and more time working at it."

"Not at all. There was once a man who had a grievance with the local magistrate, who sent him to work in the military camps for a crime he did not commit. When the man returned he dug a grave, then set out to take his vengeance upon the official who had wronged him. In time the man's friends came and buried that corrupt magistrate in the grave, and as they did they said, "Alas that our friend did not dig two graves and spare us some work." What do you suppose this means?"

The Castaway stared at Janis for a moment, blank, and then brightened. "Oh hey yeah. In case someone gets in your way and you need to bury them too. Never can be too prepared."

The monk looked at him flatly. "You are deliberately misunderstanding the proverb."

"I'm doing my best here. Really never did well with analogies and the like. I assume it means that if you're going to set out to get revenge you'd best be prepared for a bloodbath."

"Only if the blood you intend to bathe in is your own."

More blank incomprehension. "I'm afraid you've lost me."

"I'll explain it bluntly then, as you are a blunt man. Wise men of old have said that a man who sets out on a journey of revenge should dig two graves."

"Yes, I'm with you so far."

Annoyance flickered across Janis's face. "They mean one for the person he seeks vengeance on, and one for himself."

More blank incomprehension. "Well he must really suck at it if he dies in the process. Who were these so-called wise men? Didn't they know anything about preparation?"

"Revenge will always come out ill, because it is based on faulty motives."

The Castaway scratched his head. "It is? I always figured revenge was just a more selfish version of justice, but both stemmed from the same need to redress a wrong. Does that mean justice comes out ill and whatnot too?"

Janis had gone stiff with indignation. "Are you trying to compare the highest ideals of society with the lawlessness of a hate-crazed vigilante?"

"I bet judges call it justice when they order the hanging of the man that boinked their wife, too."

The monk looked as if he would explode for a moment. Then he pushed stiffly to his feet, turned on one heel, and stalked away.

The Castaway watched him go, then shook his head and resumed sharpening his dagger. "Man takes conversations too seriously. You're never going to learn anything if you get mad and leave just because the other guy offers another viewpoint." He said it loud enough for the monk to hear if he was listening, and judging by the way Janis's speed redoubled he probably had been.

He'd never liked being preached to.


	15. Rejoined

Chapter Fourteen

Rejoined

Nex finally limped into camp when the night was old, collapsing into a huddled heap near the fire with his broken leg angled awkwardly out alongside him.

Havel, tinkering with a mortar and pestle a short distance away, laughed at him, that usual cackle. "Oh yes, the great Nex says leave him behind if necessary, because when he heals completely he'll be able to go twice the distance of men on horseback in a day."

He glanced over at the undead priest, face etched with weariness and pain, but made no reply.

A moment later Kyle ducked out of the tent he shared with Havek, Merith, and Felsa. Unlike Havel, when he saw Nex his response wasn't amusement but irritation. "So you've finally made it in. Gods abandoning, man, it's nearly dawn. You've been doing this for a week, insisting you'll get faster, but it's us who're getting faster and you who's barely keeping up. Tomorrow you ride a horse."

"I don't need a horse. I dont—"

"-tire, and you don't need to eat or sleep, and you can run circles around us pitiful mortals with our sad horses." The young recruit stumped over and threw another log on the fire. "I've seen old fools too proud to admit their weakness, and young fools too vain to ask for help. The only thing both had in common was we left them behind to die when we moved on, and they likely didn't regret it until we were gone."

"If I ride someone else will have to walk."

"I can walk. Or Desira, or the dwarf Kurstad. Hell, he'd probably be glad to get off his horse."

Nex made no reply, but he knew the recruit was right. There was a tangle of emotions roiling within him, and pain and fear weren't the least of them. He was used to fearing nothing, looking forward to battle with anticipation and confidence. He wasn't used to fearing his own body, to despising his own weakness.

But he couldn't say it. Eventually Kyle sighed and leaned back against a rock by the little flames licking around the log sitting in its bed of coals. "Marbrand's force has been easy to follow up to this point. Are they still going too far west?"

"So it would appear."

"And you're not going to be able to jog on ahead with the ease of a running mountain cat and tell them they're off course, are you?" Nex made no reply to that, and Kyle snorted. "Havel, what about you? We'll keep your undead mules in check if you can run ahead. We've closed almost two days on their lead, so you should reach them in another five or six. Like our good Lord Nex here, you don't tire or need to rest."

The undead priest nodded. "Yes, I can go. Head back to sleep, Kyle."

The young recruit laughed. "Oh, I'm up for the-"

"Get in your tent."

Kyle locked irritated gazes with Havel, then abruptly stood and stalked over to his tent, ducking inside. Havel moved over to stand beside Nex, staring at his broken leg. "Your skin's healed almost completely in a remarkably short time, but that's not getting better. Are you too proud to let a healer inspect it." He cackled. "Or were you hoping to wait until Lady Olivia could do so? I've forgotten more about ailments than she ever knew, and I have the unique perspective of experience with undeath."

"What does that have to do with me?" Nex demanded.

"More than you might think. Are you going to let me examine you?"

For a moment Nex hesitated. This was the last thing he wanted. He told himself it was because he didn't want to have to need the help of anyone but himself, but deep down he recognized the fear that there might be something seriously wrong with him. If he refused to acknowledge it then he would never have to risk learning what it was. It was an incredibly stupid way to think, and in his annoyance he nodded at Havel. "See what you can see, then."

Havel nodded and came over, a little hammer and chisel in his hands. He began breaking apart the cast on Nex's leg. For a moment he was irritated that he wouldn't have the cast he needed to walk with anymore, and then he realized the absurdity of depending so heavily on it. It took a few minutes for the cast to come off, and then the undead's desiccated hands with fleshless finger bones protruding began playing over the withered, pale limb. Nex winced; whatever magical means the priest was using to delve his injury, it caused a fair bit of pain.

"What is it, Havel?" he finally demanded, hissing as a more intense surge of pain shot up his left leg.

The undead shadow priest frowned slightly, hand glowing faintly yellow as he hovered it over the break in Nex's leg, intent on that spot. "Interesting," he said. "Very interesting."

"What?"

The undead's head snapped up, glaring at him. "Do I look like I can solve medical mysteries in seconds, boy?" he demanded. "Shut up and let me work."

Nex subsided, grumbling, as pain alternating between dull numbness and flashing stabs pulsed in his leg with every heartbeat. After what seemed an eternity Havel leaned back, shaking his head. "Your condition is unique among any I've ever encountered," the undead admitted.

"How the hell is it unique? It's just a damn broken leg."

Havel held up a finger. "Ah. But there you're wrong, boy. The break is simply an, ah, exacerbating circumstance? It is simply a final strain on a preexisting condition."

Nex gritted his teeth. "Which is?"

Almost absent-mindedly the undead struck a lecturer's pose. "Your current state is very similar to an undead's. Alien magic strengthens your limbs and circumvents many of the natural processes your body should be doing. But unlike undead flesh, which is lifeless and thus unresistant to such intrusions, your living flesh is fighting back."

"Fighting back," Nex replied flatly. "My body is resisting my own magic?"

"Oh my yes." Havel rubbed what for lack of a better term could be labeled his jaw. "You see, you've used magic to replace many of your body's functions. Your body is hardwired to complete those functions, and when it is halted in that effort it views the restraint as a abnormality. It is only natural that your body should resist such things. And, given that you possess an uncanny resistance to many shadow magics, it's no surprise that your leg has found a way to use that resistance to protect itself from further interference into its natural processes."

"You're saying that my body is treating the magic I use to sustain it as an infection?"

"Precisely!" Havel exclaimed, waving a finger that was nothing more than bone beyond the second knuckle. "You're trying to use corrupt magics to replace the natural processes of life. It only stands to reason that eventually it would come back and bite you in the ass."

Nex had no answer for that. He'd been using magic to sustain himself without food or water for years. Never before had it been even the slightest problem. He told Havel that. "So why should it be a problem now?"

The undead frowned, rubbing his chin. "There's likely a concurrent cause to your condition," he said gravely, "that together with the magic sustaining it is finally revealing the abuses to your body that have steadily deteriorated it."

Nex waited, but no answer was forthcoming. "The implosion of Light and shadow, you mean?"

Havel nodded. "In a way, but not quite what you think, I believe. I don't know if it's something you know, but have forgotten, something you never learned, or something you understand but never thought to apply to yourself."

"That being?"

Havel lowered his voice significantly. "There is a reason spells have rankings."

Understanding dawned, but not total understanding; Havel was right in that he wasn't overly familiar with this. "Continue."

"Well, a spellcaster uses his body as a conduit for the magic of the spells he casts. For most spellcasters, dumping their entire mana pool into a spell would essentially kill them, their body being unable to channel such power. That's why so many of the best archmages and archpriests use staffs or other tools to channel the power through, allowing them to wield more power without harming themselves. Even so you often hear of them destroying their staffs, wands, etc with highly ranked spells, or even killing themselves with improperly created arcane circles and rituals for even greater spells."

Nex nodded thoughtfully. "One problem though. I've never had a problem channeling my entire reserve into a single spell."

"Yes, which is frankly remarkable. Your maximum potential must be phenomenal, and your body incredibly resilient. Most magic users can hold ten, twenty, even thirty times more mana than they could channel in a single spell. I can only attribute your Aran legacy to such abilities; it was said before his humiliation and exile Nielas Aran could summon flamestrikes with the power to decimate entire villages. As for Medivh, before his death he hadn't even come close to exploring his full potential, and he had the power to link with the orcs across the Great Dark Beyond and create a rift for the Dark Portal. No one now living that we know could match that feat unaided."

"I don't wish to speak of the Aran family."

Havel hesitated, then shrugged. "But even with your great potential I believe you're reaching your limits, and indeed you've already surpassed Nielas. Your reserves may continue to grow, but the strength of the spells you can channel unaided has reached its max."

Nex mulled this over. "One problem. My reserves haven't grown in months, so why is this happening now?"

The undead smiled grimly. "You may not be getting more powerful, but your body is getting weaker. Constantly damaging it by using magic to give it strength and endurance. And I would imagine every time you unleash your entire reserve in an explosive burst of power your body suffers for it a little more. It's possible the maximum strength of the spells you can cast will continue to lessen, rather than grow."

That disturbed him more than anything he'd ever heard. All his life he'd grown in power, so much so that it seemed almost easy for him to grasp whatever he reached for. He'd been treating his body this way for years with no adverse effects, unless they'd been building cumulatively all this time without him noticing. Why now?

Well, first off he'd used his power, strained his limits, more in the past few months than he had in the entire rest of his life combined. There was also the link to Stormrage, tearing something vital from him and replacing it with this cap on his potential reserves. And there was also-

He frowned. "Tell me, priest. If I had possession of an artifact which allowed me to channel many times my current reserves, and I'd been using it frequently in spells greater than any I could cast unaided, would that cause the damage to my body?"

The undead snorted. "Do bears shit in the forest?"

Nex swore and leaned back against the tent, feeling the rough canvas against his shoulders and back. "Are these detrimental effects permanent?"

Havel shrugged. "How the hell should I know? You're doing things that would be impossible for most people, so who knows what they'd do? I can tell you, though, that you'd better start giving your body a chance to heal and grow naturally and stop using your power to strengthen it, as well as limiting the strength of the spells you cast."

"We're about to enter a conflict which will most certainly prevent me from doing either of those things."

"Then I'd suggest you start now and hope it's enough."

Nex felt the demon skin spell warring inside his leg, trying to heal him to no effect. Perfect. Exactly what he needed, for his very flesh to betray him, threatening to quit on him at the slightest provocation. "So what do you suggest I "start now" with first?"

The undead smiled. It might not have been intended to look sinister, but it certainly was. "First? Why, it's time to become human again, human."

. . . . .

"Time to become human again, human," Nex mimicked mockingly as he propped the crutches under his arms and tried to maneuver his splinted foot, complete with new plaster cast, up into the stirrup of the saddle of Kyle's horse.

He felt weaker than he ever had before, hence the crutches, which were the only thing allowing him to stand unaided. After eating a bowlful of soup which his unused stomach nearly forced back up, and a hunk of fresh-baked bread with a quart of water to wash the mess down, he'd tried completely cutting off the magic he used to sustain his limbs body.

He believed the term humans have for what happened next was "complete cardiopulmonary failure". Havel had been delighted.

Since obviously his body had gotten to a state where it required at least some magic to sustain itself, at least until he had eaten enough and rested enough for it to resume its natural functions, he and Havel had had to tinker for over an hour to figure out the right balance of power to feed into it. Nex was disturbed by how much was required, although he could only hope Havel's assurances that the more he ate and rested and allowed his body to live the less power he'd need to feed it. As for the break, that might never heal or heal poorly, but there was no other option.

In the saddle, he cut back the flow to just barely enough to sustain his life and keep from falling off the horse, and as the party set out he followed along behind them. It turned out that riding was nearly as strenuous as walking, perhaps even more so since it strained different muscles, and by the end of the day he was slumped like a sack of oats, barely able to stay mounted.

That night he lay motionless in a tent, covered in furs and gradually trying to reduce the power feeding his body, until he felt his lungs and heart failing and increased the amount to hover just above that point. Even though his body felt exhausted, no longer sustained by magic and almost completely lacking in muscle, that which remained worked past its limits, he couldn't manage to sleep, so he simply lay there, thinking.

The next day he got in the saddle again, and the day after, and the day after that he experienced the joys of voiding his bowels for the first time in his memory. It was a thoroughly unpleasant process, accompanied by cramping pains in his abdomen and a stink that he was sure followed him even after he cleaned himself thoroughly. A few days after that he had to endure the experience again. Every night he lay still and wondered if it was a peculiarity of his body or his mind that he didn't sleep beyond the regenerative trances that occurred when he experienced a full mental breakdown at reaching the limits of his power. But sleep or waking, Havel insisted he lay still in repose so his body could rest.

Meanwhile he waited for his five meals and at least two quarts of water a day to put some meat on his bones. Assuming his body was able to return to normal function after the way he'd misused it, he might be able to lift up to ten pounds within a month's time. But it would probably be a long time before muscle and sinew burning calories could replace the trickle of magic he fed into his body to keep it going. In the meanwhile, however, he'd healed enough everywhere but his left leg that he could stop using his demon skin, and continue lessening the power he fed to keep himself going.

When it came to battles, that was another thing entirely. Havel had explained what should have been obvious to him. That being that he'd essentially been using a steam tank to crush a pebble when it came to his everyday use of magic to sustain his body. He'd kept himself constantly prepared to, say, leap ten feet into the air and lug four hundred pounds as if it weighed nothing, flooding his body with power it didn't need over a period of ten years or so.

The shadow priest was willing to, reluctantly, suggest that if he only used his magic for such feats when it was actually required, and let his body rely on normal functions (or at least minimal magic sustaining functions), there was a good chance no more of his body would become immune to his magic's effects. Since he'd gone ten years at full bore before any part of him had failed, drastically toning down his reckless use of magic should allow him to live a normal lifespan abusing his body only when it was required.

As to his leg, Havel wasn't certain if Nex would ever again be able to increase its performance or speed its healing through magic. The immunity it had gained might be permanent as long as the flesh remained alive. Havel had, of course, offered to cut off his leg, killing it, then reattach the dead flesh so he'd be able to magically animate it again. The shadow priest had even offered to do the same thing to the rest of his body, completing the process and allowing him to continue as he had rather than having to muck about with food and excrement and sleep.

About five minutes after the offer Nex was enjoying another meal. Assuming his leg no longer responded to magical reinforcement he was going to have to learn to fight as a cripple, since it would technically be crippled even if it did develop the musculature a normal leg possessed, compared to the strength and speed of the rest of his body.

In the meantime as one week passed and then another few days, narrowing Marbrand's lead on them by three more days until their scouts could exchange greetings, he felt the changes beginning to take place in his body. His muscles were growing, slightly, and though he remained so weak it was an effort to move around he _could_ move around, until finally he was able to cut off the flow of power to his body completely. He spent that night with his chest heaving, struggling for air as his pulse pounded painfully in his ears, but the next morning he hobbled out of his tent for breakfast on his own strength, clutching his crutches like lifelines.

The others were complaining about how much he ate. They'd been left fairly generous stores, since they were wounded and couldn't be sure if they'd be able to hunt or gather food. Still they were beginning to run low. Nex solved the problem by riding away from the others into the woods, which in spite of their travel north were greening in the closest thing this land would get to summer. In a valley several hundred yards downslope from his position he found a herd of odd creatures that looked sort of like cows with ridiculous horns on their snouts that were shaped vaguely like shovels. He cautiously got closer, trying not to spook them, and when in range killed two of the finer specimens with spells.

Havel had warned against it, but he had to be able to cast spells eventually, and he used barely the power required to kill the things. It sent a wave of dizziness passing through him, his headache pulsing while he cast, but when it was done he felt none the worse for the experience, which gave him some hope that eventually his abilities would return. Then he went to fetch the others.

That night they ate very well, and Nex left the others to preserving the remaining meat while he entered his tent.

For three hours in the middle of the night he lost track of time, sinking into hazy nightmares that were similar to his regenerative trance but far less coherent and not fueled solely by his memories. He woke from them panting, his body paralyzed for a few moments before it finally became responsive again, and he wondered why anyone would willingly put themselves through such an unpleasant process.

Two days after that, riding hard and not stopping as early as usual, they finally reached Marbrand's camp.

. . . . .

"Just how far west are we talking?" Marbrand demanded.

Nex slipped awkwardly off his horse. At first Marbrand thought it was because he was unfamiliar in the saddle, but when the boy reached the ground and staggered slightly, fumbling for a few sticks tied behind the saddle, he realized it was because the young lord was so weak he could barely stand. The sticks he freed turned out to be crutches, which he settled beneath his arms with some familiarity.

Marbrand wasn't the only one who stared at the sight in shock. Nex had always seemed tireless, almost inhumanly strong. But though he looked less haggard than he ever had before as he hobbled toward the fire he also looked worse, as if the injury had done far more than anyone had thought, and the damage was lasting.

"I'm fine," Nex said curtly to his questions. It turned out his destination wasn't the fire but the kettle simmering above it, which Geana was ladling broth out of into wooden bowls. Nex accepted his own bowl and settled down on a stump, beginning to eat. That too was strange; Marbrand had never seen him eat before, and only now realized what an odd thing that was that he'd never thought to notice.

"We're going to need you in battle. Will you be able to function?"

"If all goes well I'll function in battle as usual. I may not be particularly energetic at any other time." Marbrand waited for more, but that was all that was forthcoming.

So he turned back to the other matter. "We'd supposed Illidan was making for those mountains, but in truth we were getting worried that we hadn't seen any sign of him."

Nex focused for a moment, then pointed northeast by east, almost parallel back in the direction they'd been going the last few days following the large river to their right. "We're close to him, but going the wrong way."

Blackfinger cursed. "How many days did we lose by going the wrong way?"

He'd obviously meant the question to go unanswered, but Nex answered with his usual cool apathy. "Four, give or take a day. We'll have to increase our speed."

Marbrand cursed as well. They should've followed the Castaway's example and been more focused on scouting in all directions. He looked around for the elf's "I told you so" expression but there was no one by Alvin's side. Odd, the Castaway usually loved to be at the center of these sorts of gatherings.

Nex heard Marbrand's reports of their doings, their few clashes with local humanoid lifeforms, particularly a race that resembled upright wolverines, small but vicious, and their few encounters with undead, most of whom seemed mindless even as they were destroyed. As soon as he'd heard all that was worth mentioning in the last few weeks Nex stood, using his crutches. "I'll leave it to Kyle to report for us. By the way if you're running low on supplies there's a herd of some odd creature three or so days to the south. It may be good to be sure we have provisions for several weeks before we begin pushing north. We've had a reprieve, but it's going to get worse the closer we get to Illidan's army. The Lich King's eyes are upon him."

With that the young lord stood and hobbled back to his horse, fumbling for the tent tied behind the saddle and beginning to set it up in a nearby open space. Its location would foul up a lane of traffic through the camp, but Marbrand said nothing. Eventually the others went back to their own conversations. Blackfinger teased Geana away from her kettle and back towards their tent, whatever he was saying or doing making her giggle.

Marbrand was the only one still watching when Ilinar found Nex beside his tent. "I never saw you as weak before," the boy said, almost cruel in his tone.

"I'm only human. You seem to have grown stronger, in any case."

"I have. My magic's not like you described your own. You have nothing to teach me."

"You think so? Very well, then. I'm sure the veterans can teach you combat, and for the rest you'll muddle your way through as best you can." A silence settled. "Is there anything else?"

"Why are you setting up your tent?"

"The same reason anyone else does, I'd guess. To use it."

"You don't sleep."

"Maybe not yet."

The boy stood sullenly for a moment, then turned away. "Good night, Lokiv."

Marbrand tensed at hearing the word and the contempt the boy injected into it. After a moment he went after Ilinar, catching his shoulder as the boy tried to slip away from camp. "You should watch your tone, boy," he said in a growl.

Ilinar looked up at him, eyes glowing blue in the light of the waxing moon. Perhaps more than they should have. "I speak as I ought to."

"It's dishonorable to taunt a wounded man for his weakness."

The boy laughed mockingly. "You think Lokiv's weakness comes from _wounds_?" He shook free and continued on, and Marbrand didn't try to follow him.

What did _that_ mean?

. . . . .

They crossed the river the next morning. It was a less than happy departure, because not only was the water freezing but three of the sleds-turned-rafts that carried their provisions sank halfway across, spilling almost a week's worth of food into the drink, most of which couldn't be recovered. It was only by fortune that they managed to get the rafts themselves across.

It turned out the things had been poorly constructed, large cracks between the nailed together planks that let in water causing them to sink. Marbrand was cussing out Hal and Falstan when another of the dwarves, Garna, quietly pointed out that the cracks looked more as if they'd been created by driving a blade down between the planks and prying them apart than by shoddy workmanship. It took only a few minutes of closer inspection to reveal that it was true; not incompetence, but sabotage.

If that was true it was the second obvious attempt to do so, and this time they were on Northrend and trying to prevent them from coming here could no longer be used as an excuse, unless the saboteur's desire was for them to turn back.

Marbrand thought back to the other reports Devan had made over the weeks that seemed innocuous. A few saddle cinches failing, apparently from wearing, tent poles broken during the march, a man reporting his furs stolen while he slept. Small things, few truly problematic, and he had a hard time believing anything sinister behind them.

But it was troubling.

Taking Nex's advice, he sent Alvin and a few dozen of their better riders south to that herd of creatures. The soldiers were to do their best to drive the creatures north to the river, then slaughter a few dozen and begin curing the meat and hides. Marbrand left them enough horses and sleds to bring it all back and shifted the burden onto the others, continuing on.

Four days later they reached the mouth of a large, forbidding pass through tall mountains. There they encountered the first elvish scouts, winging over them on dragonhawks for a few minutes then landing to speak to Nex, whose weakness seemed to disappear into vigor as he approached where they sat their mounts. But as soon as they were gone he sagged back down, hobbling over to his crutches and getting them situated with effort.

"The army has stopped for a time," the young lord said to Marbrand's questioning glance. "We'll reach them in two days."

"Why are they stopped?"

Nex's expression was grim. "Because the way ahead is guarded. From here it looks as if we'll be fighting our way to the Frozen Throne."

Marbrand nodded. "No small surprise there. I didn't think the Lich King would just sit and watch his doom come."

"Didn't you?" Nex began hobbling past him towards his horse. "Arthas has reached Northrend. The dragonhawk scouts spotted his forces a hundred miles south of here, coming fast."

. . . . .

The combined blood elf and naga army was packed tightly in the mouth of Angrathar Pass, a long, narrow ravine that wound through the jagged peaks of the Crown of the World mountain range towards the heart of that range, the monstrous spiraled glacier known as Icecrown. Though it seemed they were on the Lich King's very door in truth they'd barely come half the distance, and some of the toughest terrain was ahead, within the pass.

The army looked far larger than when he'd last seen it. It appeared both Kael'thas and Vashj had succeeded in getting more troops from their people, and in truth the blood elves and naga had responded to the call far more readily than humanity had.

But then, the elves and naga had received that call from the royalty of their kind. Humans had had only a scrawny ill-favored man and a bunch of tired old veterans raising the call to arms.

There was an extensive picket of hawkstrider cavalry and murloc coastrunners guarding the approach to the camp, and Nex drew his forces within that picket before having them set their own camp a few miles away. The leader of the blood elf forces sent a runner on to where the officers had set themselves up on a rise overlooking the entrance to the pass, and as Nex was eating his dinner the runner returned with orders that he and Marbrand were to join Lord Illidan and the high officers of the army.

Apparently his master and his blood elf and naga advisors were already in council about how best to proceed. Not that their arrival was timely; the council had been going on for days as dragonhawk riders scouted the mountains ahead. But it _was_ timely in that it seemed Illidan was getting ready to move out in whatever plan they'd devised.

"Should we ride?" Marbrand asked, showing genuine concern as Nex set aside his crutches and started after the runner, who was escorting them back.

Nex shook his head. "No need. It's only a little distance, and now's as good a time to assess my condition as any."

The burned knight nodded and fell into step beside him. He looked weary as well, after a long day's travel following long weeks of the same, but he didn't let that bow his back. "You should exercise more, my Lord. I know it's difficult on a broken leg, but your strength won't return if you're not exerting your muscles."

Nex fought a stab of irritation. He didn't need his strength to return, only that his body not be flooded with his power except when he needed to perform. At all other times he didn't mind hobbling around like an old man. "I'll have it when I need it, and when I don't it doesn't matter."

"That seems a shortsighted way to look at it," the knight said in disapproval.

"It need only be for a short time." Nex pushed more power into his limbs, enough to stand straight and walk with more surety in spite of the pain of his leg. It jolted with each step, but the bone was finally beginning to knit. Not from magic but from natural processes, which seemed a promising sign.

They passed a blockade just before entering the camp, featuring not only warriors but casters as well. In the hills above the pass he saw more sentries watching to all sides, including down at the two humans as they made their way deeper into the camp.

"How fiercely are you clashing with undead?" Marbrand called to the blood elf runner walking ahead.

The elf glanced back. "Strong resistance deeper into the pass. Our pickets there are tested hourly. We haven't tried to push yet, but I hear the Prince's plan is to surge forward all at once, sweeping away Scourge resistance and then doing our best to outpace it."

"What about the heights to either side of the pass? The Scourge could punish us for traveling through."

The runner looked ahead once more. "They're not easy slopes to scale or peaks to perch on, even for undead. And if they try it our squadrons of dragonhawk riders, couatls, and nether drakes will punish them."

"Until the Scourge brings out their own fliers." The runner made no response to that.

Their path was mostly uphill, into the pass and then further up the rise where the officers had camped. As they passed through a section occupied by female naga basking in a pool Marbrand leaned closer. "None of the naga wear clothing," he murmured.

Nex smiled. "Does the nakedness of reptilian humanoids offend your sensibilities?"

The burned knight snorted, more amused than insulted. "I just wonder how they withstand the cold."

Nex shrugged. "They're dwellers of the murky depths. It must be deeply cold on the floor of the Great Sea."

"Even so, water can only get so cold before it freezes. I imagine it will get much colder than that before we reach Icecrown."

"I'm sure they've addressed the problem. We should worry about our own situation and leave them to theirs."

Marbrand didn't look happy with the answer, but he nodded and fell silent.

There was a large tent at the very top of the rise, of the sort that can be separated into multiple rooms inside. Smoke streamed from several ventilation holes, suggesting roaring fires within. A full dozen naga myrmidons and an equal number of the Blood Prince's Royal Guard circled the tent, and Nex was obliged to show his Illidari stone to the blood elf captain. Then both were disarmed and carefully searched.

"I don't recall such measures taken other times I've visited my master," Nex said coolly, hiding the pain has his cast was roughly probed to check for anything hidden inside.

The blood elf in his scarlet armor who watched the proceedings continued to glare. "There's been trouble in the camp," he said shortly. "None enter the presence of the Prince armed."

Nex noted Marbrand's instant interest. "What sort of trouble?" the burned knight asked.

There was no answer. Moments later they were ushered into a small antechamber just within the tent's entrance, with two long, low plush benches along either wall and a brightly glowing brazier in the center. Marbrand immediately peeled off his cloak and outer fur garment, while Nex endured the sudden heat.

They were obliged to wait for almost an hour before Velansar Redcrest swept into the little room, sparing a contemptuous glance for them both and a disgusted twist of his mouth for Marbrand's scarred features. "You arrive at last. The Lady Vashj was pleased to have some of her finest myrmidons returned to her presence. She had thought to provide you a temporary gift, not an extended loan. And you repaid her generosity poorly by allowing some to die."

Nex stood. "I'll see Stormrage now."

The blood elf Captain smiled unpleasantly. "No, you won't. What numbers do you bring?"

Nex glanced over to Marbrand, and the man answered reluctantly, obviously not pleased to have to speak to Redcrest directly. "Two hundred and twelve. We lost thirty-two on the way here, mostly in the battle at the coast."

"Yes, our scouts report the fleet is in ashes. Waited until your allies were all dead before sweeping in for the victory, did you?" Marbrand could obviously find no response to make to such a wild accusation. Redcrest snorted. "Disposition of your troops, including veterans."

"Sixty-two veterans, including twenty-eight dwarves featuring riflemen and three mortar teams. Two priests, one a former cleric of Northshire Abbey and the other turned to shadow as well as being an alchemist. A mage adept in frost magics. A goblin engineer with limited ordnance. The rest are recruits, well-trained during the voyage here. They held their own at the coast."

"I'm sure they did," Redcrest answered snidely. "What supplies did you bring?"

Nex leaned back, allowing Marbrand to give his report. For all his faults at the very least Redcrest was thorough, and Marbrand knew his army well enough to answer the pertinent questions. Then the questions began growing more odd, asking for detailed histories of the recruits, losses occurring out of combat during the trip, etc. Marbrand was obviously confused by the questions, and soon his face began flushing.

"I'll answer no more of these. You insult my brave soldiers by even asking.

"Your insubordination is noted." Redcrest turned on one heel. "Wait here until you are summoned."

. . . . .

"Halt!"

The Castaway glanced over, then stopped and looked closer. "Well hey there, cupcake."

The blood elf sentry glared at him. "Who are you?"

"What do you care?"

"I'm a sentry, it's my job to care."

"Oh. Well it doesn't matter who I am. I'm one of the living." His eyes did a long sweep up and down the sentry's body, bundled in furs but still obviously a knockout. Unusually tall and slender. Auburn hair, pale skin framed by her fur cloak, eyes a light gray that seemed to take up half her face. He waggled his eyebrows. "If you've got a few minutes I could show you just how alive I am. Probably make you feel more alive than you've ever felt, too."

The woman glared at him frostily. "I don't bed jackasses."

The Castaway's eyes widened, and he whistled softly in appreciation. "Oh wow, what a mental picture! Like one of those goblin shows down in Stranglethorn. I know what I'm going to sleep thinking of tonight."

The sentry hefted her crossbow. "I'm about to use this."

The Castaway quickly raised his hands and began backing away. "Sorry, sorry! Sweet dreams my lovely, twisted woman. You'll be in mine."

He ducked away just as the crossbow _twanged_ and a bolt flew over his head. He thought it would've missed anyway, a warning shot, but he wasn't about to second-guess. Before she could even begin turning the crank to load another he'd slipped away between the tents, whistling.

Good to be among his people again.

. . . . .

"You, old man, stay there. Lokiv, with me."

Nex shared a glance with Marbrand, then stood and ducked out into the tent's entryway. Redcrest strode over to the flaps leading into the tent's largest room.

Here it was more chilly, the braziers around the corners doing little to heat the entire space. Lady Vashj lay in an attitude of repose with a few of her handmaidens and a pair of the largest males Nex had yet seen close by where Kael'thas and several of his officers were clustered around a map table. Mundane maps in this case, perhaps pilfered from some elvish library. Stormrage stood a short distance away, blindfolded eyes turned to the northwestern side of the tent, as if staring through the walls. Which he very well may have been.

Redcrest led him over to Kael'thas and stood a short distance away until the Blood Prince deigned to notice them. He turned, the balls of green energy hovering above his head beginning to rotate slowly. "Ah, human. Captain Redcrest has apprised me concerning the disposition of your forces. Less than I'd hoped for, but more than I'd anticipated."

"I had hoped for twice as many. What use do you anticipate putting my army to?"

"The best use." Kael'thas frowned, then gestured to Redcrest. Redcrest spoke for his prince.

"His Majesty wishes you to relinquish the dwarves and the goblin to his service."

Nex blinked. "You wish to weaken my army?"

Redcrest curled his lip in contempt. "This concerns the army as a whole. The mortar teams and riflemen will serve a greater purpose in the main assault, where there will be need of siegecraft. Same with the goblin. Your own ragged band of irregulars will be put to other uses where artillery will be of less use to you."

"Fair enough. Will I have soldiers to replace those you've taken from my army?"

Redcrest was about to answer but Kael'thas gave a subtle gesture, and the blood elf captain withdrew. "You continue to call the army yours, human," the Blood Prince said quietly. "You are mistaken. From what Redcrest has reported to me the army is Marbrand's. You've given it to him and let him make it his. A wise decision, perhaps, since he's a far more capable leader than you, but should he decide to walk away with it, or even turn against us, there will be nothing you can do."

Nex fought to control his irritation. "Then it's a good thing our purposes are aligned."

"Yes, for the moment." Kael'thas smiled a charming smile with a hint of steel to it. "But what else have you failed to consider? He is the heart of the army, the soul of it. Beyond the might of his own sword, if he falls the army falls with it. Certainly, another may be able to step up and take his place, but the humans won't fight for a replacement as zealously, won't rush into battle as bravely trusting anyone but Marbrand to lead them out."

Nex was quiet for a long time. "I understand," he finally said. "I won't let him die."

"It goes beyond that. You must see he remains focused on our purpose all the way to the Frozen Throne, and that nothing gets in his way. Neither death, nor doubt in the cause, nor thoughts of betrayal."

"You wish me to babysit him? Out of all the useful purposes you could put me to?"

"Oh, I'll expect you to remain useful. But he's your army, human. You had best not lose him." Kael'thas gestured to Redcrest once more.

"If your army can be trusted to not desert, His Majesty wishes you to join Captain Kanviel in the rearguard and carry out several objectives."

"My army has nowhere to desert to. What are these objectives."

"Small assurance. I'll have to trust you can keep your rabble from turning craven. Primarily it is Kanviel's wish that you find the forces of the traitor Arthas coming up from behind and assess their disposition."

"A scouting mission? You have your dragonhawks for that."

Redcrest sneered, as if mocking his ignorance. "Arthas has gained the services of several reanimated blue dragons. These frost wyrms pose a significant threat to our forces in the air. Kanviel will have to content himself with eyes on the ground."

Nex went still. "You want us to scout out the location of the traitor and his army with undead dragons in the air?"

"Scout _and_ harass. Your men should be put to some use."

"And should we try to strike at Arthas, what then?"

"Emphasis on try," Redcrest said. "Nobody has any confidence you'll succeed. In the event you do, however, you'll return and join the rearguard under the command of Captain Kanviel."

"You're wasting my men. They could be put to much better use."

"There is no better use to put them to, as they are useful for nothing else."

Nex fought to control his rising anger. "You misunderstood me. That's easy to do when you assume everyone is stupider than you and everything you hear is filtered by that bias."

"It's a safe assumption to make when it's true."

"In your case that's highly unlikely." Nex noted that many of the officers in the tent were listening in, and with effort made his tone neutral once more. "The blood elf army has skilled Rangers. These would make far more useful scouts and skirmishers than my half-trained recruits. You'd waste their lives for nothing."

"Their lives are already wasted. It remains only to wait until they are dead, and then the celebrations can begin."

Nex turned his attention to Kael'thas, waiting to see if the Blood Prince would intervene. His subordinate was stupendously out of line, and Nex's patience was running thin. But the regal elf simply watched them both with an air of faint amusement, the three balls of felflame which usually encircled him whizzing in a chaotic pattern overhead. None of the other officers in the tent seemed any more disposed to object. In fact many looked as if they agreed.

So Nex spoke. "Do you know what you are, Redcrest? You are a snarled line in a desperate spell matrix, doing your best to unravel it all. You are the left-handed man in the shieldwall, fouling up those to either side and failing to protect them. You cause unnecessary problems which no one benefits from, not even yourself, and turn a camp that should be unified in a perilous venture into a nest of enemies. Were I as blind and shortsighted as you, I would've already killed you a hundred times over."

The elf sneered. "Is that a threat, human? I've endured plenty of those from you. Only now you've made the mistake of doing it before witnesses. For your sake I hope I don't die, because murder is still punished in these camps."

For a moment Nex stood poised between a dozen insults and outright attacks, then he turned away. "Your stupidity confounds me, Redcrest. Marbrand had the right solution for you, to simply refuse to deal with you at all. I intend to adopt that solution. Prince Kael'thas, is it truly your will I set my forces to this dangerous and unnecessary task?"

Kael'thas's lip curled. "Dangerous, yes. I do not agree it is unnecessary. If you are done shooting the messenger then go and prepare your irregulars. I give you autonomy to handle this as you see fit. When you've completed your mission and Arthas stands poised to assault Angrathar Pass you may rejoin Captain Kanviel with any survivors."

Nex nodded stiffly and turned, walking away without so much as a salute or obeisance. He ducked into the anteroom and gestured curtly to Marbrand, and the scarred knight hastily donned his warm gear and followed after. Nex kept silent as they made their way down the hill, still struggling with his anger. At the bottom, well away from everyone, he finally spoke.

"Marbrand."

The burned knight turned his head. "My Lord?"

"You spoke to me after the battle for the beach, telling me I could not afford to risk myself. I understand a little better what you were saying, now. About how a man could be more important than just the role he plays in the fighting."

Marbrand smiled. "I'm glad to hear it."

"Which is why you will no longer be fighting on the front lines."

The knight's smile vanished. "What?"

"You lead this army, you command it. You ultimately decide how it will operate in battle. Just like I can't play my part while fighting desperately in the thick of things, neither can you."

Marbrand shook his head, looking almost desperate. "That's why I have the army arranged in distinct units so the officers can make judgment calls during the battle. The men rally around me and fight all the better for having me beside them."

"Perhaps. But if you die this army's hope dies with you." Nex finally smiled. "So let's stand side by side behind the lines with the other casters, you and I."

He could see how the old veteran fumed silently, but Nex had him and he knew it. "Fine. But I won't avoid fighting if it comes to me."

"And you think I would?"

Marbrand gave a sharp nod, and they passed the rest of the way to their camp in silence.

. . . . .

Velansar strode down the hill to where his tent stood halfway along the rise, beside the large tent where the mages had the honor of being housed. It pleased him to finally stand above them in position, as he always had on the battlefield.

The tent was well-lit this time of night, the mages within speaking quietly, studying their arcane tomes, or meditating after a difficult post along the front lines. Velansar wondered where that bitch Firedge was. Freezing her traitorous ass off on back to back shifts if he had any say in it.

The human had been wearing that damned sword. He had no desire to wield it himself, not after enduring the thing's mad incoherent shrieking for a few hours while he tried to find a way to draw it from its sheath without burning himself to a crisp. Even his best magical immunities hadn't been sufficient to ward the intense Light that had suffused him, nearly overwhelming him before it was half drawn. He had been able to see how perfectly sharp the blade was, however, enough to cut right through the steel of his gauntlet when he ran his finger along it.

And now that worthless, cowardly human had it! A creation of purity in the hands of the hopelessly corrupt. Velansar had no use for the Light, not since it had failed to protect his home from the human traitor Arthas Menethil. Not since it had failed to turn the hearts of the humans who wielded it, giving them the power they needed to attempt to destroy his people in spite of their innocence.

But by the Sunwell, it galled to see it hanging on that scrawny bastard's hip.

He ducked into his tent and strode forward, reaching for the tinderbox on the desk and the lantern beside it. A moment later his head was jerked back, lifting the cheekguards of his helm above the rim of his breastplate. Before he could even so much as stiffen a blade was sliding into his throat, so smooth that he barely even felt it until the first heartbeat afterwards, when his hands lifting to protect himself were sprayed with his own blood. Then the pain struck, the horrible message his mind sent that things were terribly, terribly wrong.

The grasp on his helmet disappeared and his head sagged forward. He tried to scream, but all that came out was a desperate gurgle. He shoved his hands against the blood pulsing out of his ruined throat, trying to hold it in, even as he turned to face his attacker. His turn became a collapse as his legs buckled, his strength failing, and he flopped to the ground, struggling to flail his limbs, anything to seize life for a moment longer.

As his life's blood poured out to soak the groundcloth beneath his head, as his vision began to dim, his killer fell into a crouch beside him and leaned close.

Velansar's already bulging eyes bulged wider. "You," he tried to say, lips moving soundlessly. It was the last word he ever spoke.


	16. Aftermath

Chapter Fifteen

Aftermath

The Castaway sat up on a ridge on the western edge of the blood elf camp, one leg curled up against his chest and the other dangling down towards the ground below.

He hadn't wasted any time gloating after slitting Redcrest's throat, just slipped out of the tent and then out of camp. "That's the thing, Redcrest," he said to the empty air. "I had an interesting talk with a preachy monk the other day, who seemed convinced that people seeking revenge always end in failure. But what he doesn't realize is it's only the people who're caught whose motives get to be analyzed for purpose. The ones who get away are just assassins and no one ever knows why they did it.

"So it's people like you who fail at revenge and become object lessons for the smug little wise men to put in their analogies. I seem to recall when you tried to ambush Lokiv. You carefully organized everyone, made plans for every eventuality, and then when he stepped out of his tent you proceeded to spend the next minute or so gloating about your victory. At which point he escaped and you looked like a colossal jackass.

The Castaway waved his dagger, which he'd wiped clean on Redcrest's tunic, as if making a point. "You see, if it'd been you ambushing Redcrest in his tent tonight you would've probably had a light hidden so the moment he entered his tent you could light it on up, indicating to everyone outside that the tent was occupied. Then you would've said your little spiel about how you hated him and how he was a selfish bastard who'd betrayed you and ruined your life. Then you would've tried to kill him. And if he hadn't managed to fight you off he would've at least been able to scream, alerting sentries and half the camp to what was going on.

"Whereas if _I'd_ been jumping Lokiv with the army all those years ago I'd have let it look business as usual, and then slit his throat as soon as his attention was diverted. It might not've worked, because let's be honest that human's a cagey bastard, but I like to think I would've made a go of it."

The Castaway looked at his dagger for another satisfied moment, then tucked it away. "Your problem was you had no respect for the powerful man you were trying to kill, and so you failed. You cared more about letting him know you'd beaten him, about having your moment of victory. You put pride before purpose. Idiots like you are why our friend Janis can act so smug about the concept of vengeance. Meanwhile your death will be a nice cozy little mystery."

After a moment assessing the distance to the ground he pushed off with his tucked in foot and dropped, landing smoothly in the soft snow at the bottom of the cliff. Whistling, he headed off in the direction of Marbrand's camp.

He had another tent to sneak into tonight.

. . . . .

"Visitor incoming!" the sentry at the northern end of camp yelled.

Marbrand looked up from where he sat around the fire with the others, including Nex who was tearing into a steak from one of those odd shoveltusk creatures. The great thing about constant cold was it allowed for easy preservation of meat, so they didn't have to worry about salting or smoking or drying.

When he caught sight of Redcrest's man, Hardal Dor'ane, approaching, he went out to personally greet the elf. "Welcome to camp, Hardal," he said, extending his hand. "I seem to recall last time you visited we had little to offer in the way of food. Would you like a steak?"

The old Ranger looked surprised for a moment, then he smiled. "Gladly. Rations aren't exactly tight back at the main camp, but we don't get that very often."

"We were lucky enough to find a herd of creatures like heavy antelopes." Marbrand led him to the fire and got him seated, then gathered up one of the slabs of meat roasting on the fire and cut off a generous portion onto a wooden plate. "What brings you here?" he asked as he handed it over.

"Directions. I can point you the best route to intercept Arthas's army, maybe give you a bit of a hint about the lay of the land." Hardal drew his belt knife and speared the meat, lifting it to his mouth whole and tearing off a chunk. "Not bad. Like tough beef."

Marbrand was about to respond when Hardal's eyes fell on Havel's undead porters. Cursing, he flung his meat aside and leapt to his feet, holding his knife defensively.

"Easy, you fool. These things couldn't fight even if they needed to. I would know, since the idiots almost let me die once before."

The elf slowly turned his head to face Havel, who had popped up from behind a tent with a mortar and pestle in his hands. "What the hell is this?" he demanded.

Marbrand couldn't help but smile. "Hardal Dor'ane, meet Doran Havel."

Hardal gave a brief, unfriendly nod, and still on his dagger. "You think it's funny that our names are similar? Is there some reason these undead are still unliving?"

"They're free of the Lich King's control. Lord Nex has bound them to our cause."

"That's a very foolish idea," Hardal growled. "And I find it offensive he uses the name of Doran Havel. I knew of an elf by that name, once."

Havel smiled, exposing rotted teeth. "Well I never knew of you."

The hand Hardal gripped his knife with was shaking with the elf's rage. "Don't use that name," he snapped.

Marbrand looked between them, then decided this had gone far enough. He caught Hardal's arm. "With me, friend. We'll find Alvin and you can give your directions." For a moment he feared the old Ranger would ignore him, then Hardal nodded and put his knife away, stooping to retrieve his steak, which had luckily flown into a fairly clear patch of snow. Together they moved off, away from where Havel stood staring after them with glittering yellow eyes.

On the other side of camp a group of female recruits were gathered around the Lady Olivia, eating. The group parted to allow Geana into their midst, and the woman moved to sit beside Olivia. Her eyes followed the cleric's to Marbrand's disappearing back.

"His eyes rarely leave you when you're not noticing."

Olivia started, turning to look at the young woman, then smiled. "Men look at women. It's a harmless thing."

Geana shook her head firmly. "He's going to decide to do more than look, eventually."

"I don't believe so. He's too much a gentleman to ever put himself forward in such a fashion. As long as I do not encourage him he will see nothing to be encouraged about."

"Then he'd be the first man I've ever seen who thinks that way," Geana retorted. "It might be kinder to cut him off now, if you have no interest in him. The longer you wait the worse it will hurt him."

"What makes you think I want to cut him off?"

The pretty young woman looked at her with surprise. "Don't you? Look at his face. Sure he's grand as a leader, and nobody doubts his valor. But who'd want him as a man?"

Olivia turned a firm look on the younger woman. "This isn't an issue to be worrying about now. Our cause is too perilous to concern ourselves with other matters."

Geana abruptly giggled. "It's a nice thing to worry about. When it gets so cold at night, so my breath freezes in my throat, I like to be curled up beneath the furs next to a big bear of a man."

Olivia gracefully stood up. "Excuse me, ladies. I'm going to seek my bed."

At the fire Nex finished his dinner, picked up his crutches in one hand and pushed awkwardly to his feet, and hobbled toward his tent. He'd just pushed the flap aside and was extending his second sight into the small interior to make sure he wasn't about to trip on anything when he became aware of someone crouching at the end of it next to his bedroll.

Immediately he started to throw up a shield, backing out of the tent. His right leg caught on one of the crutches and instead found himself falling backward.

A hand caught him. "Easy, easy," a voice hissed. "I just want to talk, come inside."

Nex cautiously followed the figure into his tent. It was the elf, Castaway, who seemed a particular friend of Alvin's. Nex extended his second sight to look inside the cowl of the man's hood and see his face, and he stiffened in surprise. "You."

Hiezal Nova shook his head. "That's what the last guy said too."

Nex allowed himself to drop awkwardly onto his blankets. "How the hell have I not noticed you before now?"

Nova shrugged. "You knew I was called the Castaway and you didn't bother to learn anything else. I wasn't exactly going out of my way to be around you, either."

"Probably a good idea, since the last time I saw you you were heading off to deliberately disobey my orders and sabotage the Exodar's drive. Saire seemed convinced you'd vanished with the draenei."

The elf waved that aside. "Never mind all that. I wanted to talk to you about joining your army."

"You're already part of my army."

"Yes well things have changed a bit. And anyway I was thinking of changing my position in it."

"To what?"

Nova grinned. "The same thing I was before. Your bodyguard."

Nex answered that irritating smile with a frown. "You made a piss poor bodyguard as I recall. In fact you never actually attempted to do your job at all."

Nova raised an admonitory finger. "Ah, but that was before I realized you were a good leader."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I got to see Velansar Redcrest in action, and to be honest he's a complete dick. Marbrand is, of course, much better than you leadership wise, but he hardly needs a bodyguard. I figure if you're going to be throwing yourself into the middle of hordes of undead, or these days hobbling, you need someone to guard your back."

Nex stared at the man flatly for a moment. "And if I refuse this "generous" offer?"

For once the elf's smile faded. "Then I either hang for the murder of Velansar Redcrest or die of frostbite out in the cold."

. . . . .

There was a long, stunned moment of silence until Lokiv could find his voice. "What?" For once the human didn't sound so cool and calm.

Hiezal shrugged. "Well the way I see it, if I just up and join the elven army days after one of its officers died I'm cooked for sure. But the only alternative is joining you or wandering out into the wastes of Northrend and dying. Not very good choices." At seeing the human continuing to glare at him Hiezal raised his hands placatingly. "Don't worry, nobody saw me do it or could trace it back to me."

Lokiv's face twisted with annoyance. "You fool. I quarreled with Redcrest not two hours ago. They're not going to trace it back to you, they're going to trace it to _me_!"

He felt his smile fade. "Oh. I guess that's a pretty shitty start to my job of protecting you."

The human growled out a blistering curse in demonic and spun, striding from the tent.

Hiezal slipped out after him and followed until his new charge found Marbrand. "Change of plans, Marbrand. You and me are going to need to be in public where everyone can see us for the rest of the night."

Marbrand frowned. "Why?"

The human's answer was too quiet for him to hear, but Marbrand's head snapped up and his eyes sought Hiezal out. Hiezal decided it was a good time for him to disappear. Besides, he had one last errand now that he was back with the elvish army. He slipped behind a tent and wandered off.

About fifteen minutes later he found Ilinar Montfere playing some sort of flute in a clearing. "Hey kid, I need you to do something for me."

The boy stopped playing and turned cold blue eyes on him. "What?"

"I need you to go tell Saire Firedge to come see me."

Ilinar frowned, looking surprisingly put out at being interrupted. "Why should I?"

Hiezal withdrew the glowing crystalline draenish dagger he'd kept hidden all this time, afraid someone would ask where he'd gotten it. "I'll give you this."

. . . . .

Up Angrathar Pass where it narrowed out at the first watch point the wind blew constant from the north. It was so pervasive it could sneak its way through anything, chilling various parts of the body with each passing moment.

Saire huddled in the crude windbreak others had set up at their post, little more than a few blankets staked to the ground and tied to poles. The wind went right around it, sometimes even through it, but it was better than nothing. Every now and again she stamped her feet against the frozen ground.

It had been almost two hours since the last undead attack. It hadn't taken much for her and Tyene to repel it with a coordinated magical attack. She didn't know why Prince Kael'thas was insisting on using his mages for the task when they'd be needed in future engagements, but here they were.

There was a thump, then her fellow sentry ducked back behind the windbreak, blowing out air in shivering gasps. "It's so c-cold," the platinum blond said through chattering teeth. "My s-spells keep f-freezing on my lips."

_That's not all that freezes on your lips, if half the rumors I've heard are true. _Saire was too cold and miserable to muster up the courage to say the words. And who knows, maybe Tyene would've been too cold and miserable to react to them. Although a good exuberant catfight might've warmed them both up.

Her fellow mage must've had the same thought, for without warning or preamble Tyene ducked out of her cloak, pulled open Saire's, and slipped inside, wiggling around until both garments covered them. Saire almost moaned at the warm body pressed against hers, the warm breath chasing away the cold clawing down her throat. This was the first time Tyene had done this, since one of them was supposed to be keeping watch at all times, but she wasn't complaining.

In any other situation she might've found the other woman's actions provocative, but at the moment all she could think about was the blessed stirrings of warmth. Tyene, on the other hand, must've felt different, since after a few moments of sitting still enjoying their shared body heat the woman's lips found her neck and began tracing along it. And in any other situation Saire might have found herself reciprocating, but at the moment she was so weary and sick of being cold that she just leaned against the other mage and let her do what she wanted, occasionally making appreciative noises. Tyene didn't seem to mind that the somewhat awkward groping was completely one-sided as her small, warm hands slipped under various layers of fur and wool seeking and eventually finding skin. Saire let a gasp escape her lips; after all she was only elvish, and it had been a long time since her needs had been seen to.

On the plus side it did warm them up a lot faster.

She'd just about reached the point where she could forget everything else and just enjoy the soft, experienced touches of the other woman when she realized they had an audience. She stiffened and sat up, wiggling a little to free herself from Tyene's embrace. She was about to give the intruder a piece of her mind when she recognized who it was and her anger turned to mortification.

"Ilinar!" she shouted, tugging her shirt and coat hastily back into place, even though it was obscured by their cloaks. "What are you . . . when did Marbrand's army get here?"

Tyene made a disappointed sound and backed away, extricating her cloak and pulling it tight around her. Saire wrapped her own cloak tight and strode over to where the boy waited, watching. She caught his arm and led him a short distance away. "You know it's rude to spy, right?"

The boy looked at a loss for words. "I, uh, I was told to come get you."

She felt a surge of conflicting emotions. "Lokiv?"

Ilinar shook his head. "No. Some elf named the Castaway who's part of Marbrand's army."

"Why would an elf be part of the human army?"

The boy shrugged. "He just is. Will you come? He said he'd give me a dagger if you did."

Saire laughed in disbelief. "I'm on sentry duty here. I can't just wander off."

"I'll take over for you." Ilinar turned a speculative look Tyene's way.

She laughed again. "Boy, you're ten years too young for that."

"Three or four at most!" the boy insisted. "Anyway I just want to get warm."

For a moment she hesitated, but then boredom and curiosity won out over fear. It probably made her a bad soldier, but the undead probably wouldn't attack again before the next shift came around. "You got this?" she asked Tyene.

"How come whenever those humans show up you sneak off into their camp?" the mage complained.

"Is that a yes?"

Tyene sighed and glanced at Ilinar, then sighed again. "Go on. As for you, kid, your face is practically blue. Get over here."

"I'm not cold," Ilinar informed her, but when she opened her cloak he was quick to scoot in and curl against her. And true to his words he did just seem to want to get warm; within moments his head was on her shoulder and he was breathing peacefully, on his way to sleep.

Tyene shivered. "Sunwell's grace, I might as well be snuggling with an icicle . . . him for you is a horrible trade. Hurry up and go before you freeze standing up."

Saire nodded and broke into a trot down the pass. It was a long way to go, almost two miles just to get to the camp, and another to get to its other side, and a final one to cross the absurdly far space that separated human from elf and naga. When she reached the camp the two sentries who intercepted her perked up with interest at the sight of her face.

"Help you, ma'am?" one asked with exaggerated politeness.

"The Castaway," she told them firmly.

The other sighed. "It would be him, getting cute visitors the middle of the night." He pointed to a tent near the center of camp. "Jyle was boiling water for tea not ten minutes ago iffen you're cold."

"Thank you." She probably would take this Jyle up on that after she'd had her meeting with this Castaway and seen what he wanted; she was having trouble feeling her feet.

When she reached the indicated tent she ducked inside without asking permission, squinting in the light of a little lamp. The Castaway turned to look at her, eyes fierce with anticipation, and she . . .

"Hiezal," she whispered, falling to her knees on his bedroll and letting the flap close behind her. Whatever indignation she'd felt at coming all this way vanished in an eyeblink.

He didn't seem interested in talking. In half a second he was across the tent, hugging her to him fiercely while his hot lips devoured hers. She kissed him back with equal fierceness, letting surprise, confusion, and welling happiness all fade to the background.

It turned out the hot tea wasn't necessary after all.

. . . . .

"How did Ilinar not recognize you?" she said, stroking his cheek. It still seemed half a dream that he was even here. Her muscles ached sweetly from the long walk, followed by the strenuous lovemaking they'd just engaged in, and now she was laying limply atop him beneath a pile of furs. As far as she was concerned they could stay there forever. "Or did he know and he just wanted it to be a surprise?"

Hiezal smirked, lifting his hand to catch hers. "He didn't bother trying to find out. Montfere's a surprisingly selfish little bastard." He brightened and lifted his arm from around her, stretching out above the covers and groping for his pack. Saire shivered as cold air poured in and pressed herself more firmly against him. Soon enough he was withdrawing something from a pocket, which he held out for her inspection.

"I got you an ugly old piece of jewelry," he said offhand, jiggling it so it clinked softly. "I heard somewhere that women like ugly old things."

Saire quirked an eyebrow in amusement as she stared at the large, gaudy necklace he withdrew. "You mean antiques?"

He shrugged. "Yeah those things."

It certainly did look old. If the metal was gold it was the faded brownish color of old gold. She took it from his hand and grunted slightly in surprise, eyes widening. "Holy shit! This has to be at least ten pounds. Is this pure gold?"

"Probably."

"But where did you get this? I've never seen this type of workmanship."

"It's draenic. I didn't have many other opportunities to get my hands on jewelry." He took it from her and tucked it over her head, settling it around her neck.

She shivered violently. "Gods it's cold!"

He stopped her when she tried to take it off. "We'll have to warm you back up again, then," he murmured, pressing his lips to her skin beside the icy gold. He started to shift, pulling her closer, and Saire responded eagerly. But before they could really get going she pushed him away.

"But how?" she demanded.

"I just have that much stamina. Five minutes and I'm ready to go again."

"Not that, you idiot! How are you here, in Northrend? Velansar said you sabotaged the Exodar's dimensional drives. You should have been lost in the Twisting Nether."

Hiezal nodded, smile fading as he drew back just enough to look into her eyes. "Yeah, I've given that some thought. Not much else to do when you're dying of starvation in a boat, right? I'm no spellcaster, but I seem to recall you mentioning that one of the first things you learn in your training is that forces compel objects down the path of least resistance."

She frowned. "What does that have to do with the Exodar?"

"Well what is the Twisting Nether, but a confluence of random, chaotic forces? In that sort of environment anything orderly would stand out. So the Exodar, having any direction it could go, gravitated to the path of least resistance and followed it."

"What path?" she demanded.

"The Rift. When ever was there a tearing of the Nether to connect two worlds? Is it any surprise the Exodar followed the Rift, found itself uncontrolled high above Azeroth, and eventually crashed down?"

"The Exodar is _here_?"

"Well to be exact it crashed down on an island off the coast of Kalimdor."

She shook her head in amazement. "That's half the world away and more. How did you manage to find Lokiv's army before they sailed for Northrend?"

"Pure luck, to be honest." And he told his story.

After he'd sabotaged the Exodar's drives the draenei had caught him. Being servants of the Light, they'd elected to hold him rather than kill him outright. A few of the draenei could speak Common, having learned it from humans of Turalyon's expedition, so they were able to communicate. For the murder of the Exodar's pilots he'd be held for the rest of his life in the Arcatraz, assuming it was ever retaken. But for the moment he was placed in a holding cell on the Exodar, a small box of a room with one open side which was blocked by a magical field sustained by the Exodar's engines.

They mostly just threw him in there and forgot him, desperate to find out what he'd done to the dimensional drives and how they could fix it. He couldn't help them there, much as it was now in his best interest to do so.

Then had come the day, after what seemed like weeks of travel, when the entire structure had begun shaking like a handful of rocks in a child's hand. Hiezal was thrown around so violently he even bounced off the ceiling of the small cell a few times, and it was all he could do to keep from being seriously hurt.

Then they crashed, so violently that his arm was broken and he passed out. When he awoke the cell and outside corridor was black as pitch and he was on a tilted surface, as if the ship had landed at an angle. The first thing he did when he got his wits about him was throw himself out of his cell, since the field was no longer up, so hard that he slammed into the wall outside. It turned out to be unnecessary since the ship didn't regain power for several hours.

During that time he felt his way down corridors, always moving away from voices or hiding, until finally the tilted corridors around him became gray rather than black, and he could see in which direction lay light.

There were other draenei there, crowding the door through which what looked like daylight streamed, trying to get in to where they could see, but a handful of anchorites guarded the entryway, forcefully keeping everyone out. Hiezal had waited until a large portion of the guards herded up the civilians and led them away, then he snuck up as close as he could and surprised the remaining two guards, knocking one out and shooting the other with the first one's gun. After that the gun became useless, but it didn't matter.

Hiezal grinned. "I really lucked out. The daylight room was some sort of launching bay full of vehicles with a big blank opening to the outside that I guess was probably covered by the same sort of magical field that blocked my door. I didn't exactly understand its purpose, but the vehicles seemed fairly straightforward. I fiddled with one just enough to get an idea of how it worked, then went around and sabotaged the control panels of the others. Most were already broken anyway. Then I got in the remaining one and did my best to fly it out. And it was damn lucky the room was cavernous or I probably would've crashed. Luckily I found the altitude controls first thing so once I managed to fly out the opening I went up rather than down."

Saire stared at him. "I can't believe you actually managed to do all that. You must have balls the size of a tauren's."

"Of course. You already knew that," he waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"But then you stranded the draenei on that island?"

"Oh yes. And it's well off the beaten path. I don't imagine they'll be getting off it for years, and by then hopefully they'll have forgotten I exist."

"They won't have forgotten the blood elves were the one who did all that to them."

Hiezal shrugged. "I'm only one elf, I can only do so much."

After determining he was on an island and there were no settlements anywhere to be found he'd flown up above the mists that blanketed the land and had searched for any major landmasses on the horizon. Not finding any, he had decided to fly east since the sun was setting in the west. It was lucky he had since the island he was on was west of Kalimdor, and to the east was only the Great Sea. The mechanism he flew was fast but not that fast.

After he found the coast he began flying along it above the ocean, searching for signs of settlements. It turned out to be a mistake because apparently the mechanism's fuel wasn't inexhaustible. He found himself once more falling into the sea, and having always been an indifferent swimmer it was a major hurdle to reach the shore.

"At this point I still had no idea I was on Azeroth, or even an inhabited planet. I spent about a week mucking around near where I'd washed ashore, looking for food. The plant and animal life seemed familiar, deer and squirrels and trees and grass, but that's no guarantee of anything since Outland's life wasn't that much different.

"But eventually, in fact while I was taking a shot at going nude in preparation for when my clothes disintegrated, a party of night elf Sentinels came through and found me. They weren't too happy to see a blood elf, of course. They've had millennia to like Highborne even less than we like them. But it helped that the Third War had only recently ended, and Lady Proudmoore had had some high elf mages and priests with her, fighting alongside orcs and cow men and night elves to defend their precious World Tree. That and the fact that I was friendly and had gold." He winked. "Finding me naked and seeing what I could offer probably didn't hurt either."

She shoved at him. "I'm surprised they didn't fill you with arrows."

"No, but they wasted no time getting me on a ship. It was taking a delegation to Theramore Isle, where Lady Jaina and the survivors of the Alliance expedition, who'd effectively been exiled for defecting and following the prophet's counsel and couldn't return home, had elected to build a nation."

Saire frowned. "Theramore is even farther from here than the western coast of Kalimdor."

"Yes, but it's also an entire continent they had to sail around. They elected to sail in deep waters to increase their speed, which proved to be a mistake. A storm struck not long after they'd circled the northern tip of the continent and blew us all east, east, perilously close to the maelstrom. Sometime during that point the naga invaded our craft and slaughtered all the night elves. It seems like they like them even less than we do."

She looked at him in horror. "We may not like them, but I wouldn't want to kill them!"

"I wouldn't either. Oddly enough the naga ignored my protests. In any case they didn't kill me, but didn't seem too inclined to talk to me either. They towed that night elf ship to Lordaeron's northern coast, along with four others, and there the naga met up with Lokiv and his army. And now here I am."

He gave a deep sigh, running his fingers lightly down her spine. "And now that you've heard my story, all that talking has made me quite thirsty." He started to slide beneath the covers, wiggling down her body.

"What exactly do you think you're going to drink down . . . oh!"

. . . . .

Several vigorous hours later, he casually mentioned one detail that he'd left out of his story before.

Saire bolted upright, ignoring the chill. "You killed Velansar Redcrest?"

He seemed surprised. "Of course. He's the one who betrayed me and left me to my fate on the Exodar, not to mention the way he's always treated us both."

Saire felt a sinking sensation in her gut. "I was hoping you'd come back to the camp with me." Against her will tears pricked her eyes, and she looked away. "I didn't find you again after all these months only to have you leave again."

"Well I'm pretty sure that if anyone in camp recognizes me I'm swinging from a branch for Redcrest's murder. I wasn't very well liked to begin with. I can only hope Lokiv and the humans will protect me."

"And leave me to go back, alone?"

He encircled her waist with a strong arm, pulling her closer so he could look right into her eyes. "Why go back? We need a mage just as much as they do." He moved against her slightly. "I need one even more than most."

She laughed scornfully. "What am I supposed to say? "Oh yeah, I'm going to defect from Prince Kael'thas's elite mage cadre and go join the human army because my lover, who disappeared on Outland, has by astronomical coincidence returned and I want to be with him. Oh and he also killed Velansar Redcrest, who kind of really deserved it."

"Well if you tell them that it defeats the purpose of me hiding."

She pushed him away. "So what do you suggest?"

His jaunty smile faded. "I don't know. Maybe we can talk to Lokiv about it."

Her expression soured. "I'd rather not bring him into this." He gave her a helpless look and she sighed. "Oh all right let's go find him."

They dressed, taking far longer about it than they should have, and a few times Hiezal seemed more intent on undressing her again in spite of her slapping hands. But finally they were bundled up and ready to duck out of the tent.

To find that fifty elvish mages and fifty elvish archers were lined up at the north end of the camp, with half a dozen dragonhawks hovering overhead. Lokiv stood at the front of the human forces, all arrayed in formation with his casters at the head.

"Oh shit!" Hiezal hissed, ducking back into the tent.

. . . . .

"Do you really want to decimate our forces when we have Scourge to deal with?" Nex asked Captain Kanviel coolly. He had come forward with Marbrand, Blackfinger, Falstan, and Olivia. The blood elf had met him between the two forces with his own officers in tow, keeping the parlay even.

"Not at all, Lokiv. I simply want justice for the murder of Captain Redcrest. If you come with me the others are free to continue serving Lord Illidan."

"If you want justice I'll be happy to cooperate. Witnesses can verify that Sir Marbrand and I left the camp shortly after Prince Kael'thas dismissed us. More witnesses can verify that at about the same time we returned to this camp, where we have been all night. There is no time frame in which we could have committed any murder."

Kanviel sneered. "Awfully convenient that you have an alibi for the entire night, although his death comes as a surprise to you."

"The truth is convenient as often as it is inconvenient."

"And how do I know your stinking rabble isn't lying about the fact that you were here?"

"How do I know your witnesses aren't lying?" Nex paused two very long beats. "Oh, because you have no actual evidence, only a baseless accusation drawn from a statement I made in front of the combined blood elf and naga command which only Redcrest himself took for a threat. I've had many opportunities to kill Redcrest had I wanted to. But why I would want to weaken our forces with battle upon us?"

"Why would Garithos want to execute thousands of his allies for doing the job he commanded them to do?"

Nex straightened coolly. "I don't know, perhaps you should take that up with him."

The blood elf scowled. "Prince Kael'thas believes you murdered him. He sent me with this force to see you arrested."

"And now we're back to my original statement, Kanviel. Do you really want to engage in senseless combat when we have the Lich King's forces ahead and Arthas behind? Did anyone see me slay Redcrest? Did anyone see me anywhere near? And if so are their testimonies more trustworthy than those who most definitely saw me here, in camp, the whole night?"

Kanviel turned his attention to Marbrand. "You, sir. Are you willing to send your forces to fight and die for this murderer? All will be well if you simply give him up."

Marbrand straightened to his impressive height, burned face impassive. "I'm here in Northrend for honor, and in all I do I seek that ideal. I was with Lord Nex all night, so to let you take him would make of myself a liar and a traitor to a comrade in arms."

The elf captain's scowl deepened. "Your loyalty is commendable, sir. But do you know who it is you defend? He is a confirmed thief and murderer, a traitor whose own king calls for his death."

Marbrand didn't so much as flinch. "And if you have evidence to present on that count I will hear it. But really I must agree with Nex here. Velansar Redcrest's death weakens us all, and I grieve for him, but to let baseless accusations come to battle on the eve of our assault against the Scourge is foolhardy at best, madness at worst."

Kanviel's eyes narrowed. "You do realize I have fifty mages with me. Were I to give the order they could slaughter your entire camp and the losses to my people would be negligible."

Nex dropped a hand to rest on NexTaeja's hilt, ignoring the sword's mad rambling. "You do realize that I carry the Destroying Light. Were I to draw this sword the power released through me would wreak devastation for hundreds of yards in every direction." He heard Olivia gasp, and everyone in his party recoiled, paling.

The blood elves noted it as well, and suddenly didn't seem quite so arrogant. "That seems a rather radical stance to take," Kanviel said.

"One you've already taken. I suggest you return to your camp and make your preparations to defend against the approach of Arthas and his minions. In the meantime we will go carry out the orders Prince Kael'thas gave us. If you ever do manage to find solid proof that I was the one who murdered Velansar Redcrest we can readdress this issue."

For a moment the blood elf stood, poised, and then with a snarl he turned and stalked away, motioning for his officers to follow.

As soon as they were ten yards away Nex turned as well. "Prepare to move out. The sooner the better."

When they returned to camp they found Nova and Saire waiting for them. The mage was flushed, and it was fairly obvious her reunion with Nova had been a happy one. Up to this point, that is. "Lokiv, what am I going to-"

"Defect," Nex said curtly. "If you try to return to your camp now you'll likely be arrested. Your only option is to come with us."

Her eyes blazed. "Damn you! I always suffer for my association with you."

"Yes, but oddly enough it's never my fault." Nex nodded to Nova. "Castaway. It appears the elves want me dead. I'm going to need a bodyguard."

Nova grinned.


	17. Skirmishing

Chapter Sixteen

Skirmishing

"We had a death in the night," Devan said, appearing beside Marbrand as he saddled his horse.

He looked over sharply. "What, how? Did one of the sentry posts get hit?"

The quartermaster shook his head. "Oh no, sir. Natural causes."

"Natural causes," he repeated flatly. Wonderful; in the middle of a war against undying enemies, and he had people dying of what, exactly, old age?

"Right, sir. No sign of foul play. His companions in the tent woke up this morning to find him in his blankets, blue and stiff as a board and cold as ice." Marbrand just stared at him, and Devan shrugged. "It was awfully cold last night."

Well, there was no arguing that. Marbrand nodded. "Advise the men to make an extra effort to stay warm. Pair up if need be."

"You mean more than they already are?" At his flat look the quartermaster raised his hands. "Just saying. Even some of the gaffers and gammers're finding each other's blankets."

"Holy Light," Marbrand muttered as he pulled himself up into his saddle. "Pretty soon you're going to be reporting births, not deaths, aren't you?"

He guided his horse over to where Alvin and the other scouts were saddling up. "Take it careful today," he told the man. "We're getting close to where Hardal thought the Scourge would be by this point, and this is the route they'd be taking."

"Aye, sir. If Arthas and his minions are anywhere about we'll find them, and you'll be the first to know."

Marbrand watched them leave, noting that Ilinar was with them. Marbrand had refused to give the boy a horse, thinking it would keep him with the main group, but apparently Ilinar's solution to that was to simply run along behind them. He was surprisingly tireless.

Blackfinger found him as the others were preparing to move out. "We're getting far from our base camp," he said. "Three days out, now. Should I send someone back and tell them to move the camp forward?"

He hesitated. They'd left most of their supplies on the sleds back at camp, as well as fifty of the slowest recruits. The site was well situated at a confluence of three ravines cutting through the hills, so Arthas would have to go through one of them. The one they'd pushed south along was the most likely, but he had smaller parties going along the others too, and even one following the ridgeline of a particularly tall line of hills going southeast.

"Let's wait and see what we find today. I like where the camp's situated."

"What if Arthas went north and then cut west along the mountains? He could be bypassing us entirely."

Marbrand had no answer for that. "Get everyone ready to move out."

Nex was waiting at the head of the column when he arrived. "Eyes to the sky," the young lord said.

Marbrand bit back a sigh. Nex had some tomfool notion that because Arthas had undead dragons in the air they'd see signs of frost wyrms before any troops on the ground. It might have made sense, hell, it might even have been a good idea. But it assumed a lot of things, the most important of which was that Arthas was keeping those wyrms airborne with no care to giving away his position. Also Marbrand was getting tired of Nex belaboring the point every morning. "I'm sure your vigilance is all that's necessary," he said politely.

The young lord's expression spasmed with brief annoyance. Why? With his second sight he saw things long before anyone else did, as far as Marbrand knew. "Just have your men watching the sky."

Marbrand nodded, and they set out following the footprints of Alvin's scouts through the snow. Marbrand waited until they'd settled on a steady rhythm and everyone had sunk into their own thoughts before he reined in closer to Nex and spoke, for his ears only. "There's something we need to speak of." Nex turned to face him, waiting. "It concerns the boy."

"I assume that to mean _you_ are concerned for the boy."

"And you aren't?" Silence. "Alvin says Ilinar's developed a new technique, crafting spectral chains of ice which he uses to capture small creatures."

"And?"

"And then he tortures the creatures to death and uses their blood to paint his clothes and weapons."

Marbrand had expected the young lord to display the same sort of revulsion and horror at this news that he himself felt, but Nex still continued to just face him. Finally he said, again, "and?"

"And Alvin believes the boy's obsession with death and blood is, well, sick. He forced the boy to cook the meat from one of the first of those animals, trying to teach him a respect for life, but when the scouts ate of that meat it tasted queer. Bland, as if some vital part of it has been taken away." Still no response. Marbrand started to feel the stirrings of anger. "Don't you get it? Torturing and killing animals is the indicator of a sick mind. The boy needs to be stopped, and you're the closest thing to authority he knows."

Silence fell for a time before Nex finally spoke. "You equate his killing of these animals to the depraved urges of a twisted child, then openly admit that power has been drained from the animals. It seems to me Montfere isn't sick in the head, but continuing to develop his powers. The blood he paints on his gear, on himself, does it have any specific shape?"

Marbrand shuddered. "Have you not seen them? Patterns that seem to twist and change of their own accord."

"Runes, in other words."

He shrugged helplessly. "Even if what he's doing isn't a danger to his sanity, could you at least speak to him about it."

Nex turned his face towards him again. "Oh, what he's doing is a very grave danger to his sanity. Rune magic involving blood is demonic in origin and represents a very grave threat."

"So you'll speak to him?"

"If he asks."

"If he . . . are you saying you'll let him destroy himself because you're too _proud_ to help him?"

"I never put pride before purpose. Montfere has made it clear he has no interest in learning from me. If I'm the closest thing he has to an authority figure then he's rebelling."

"But-" Marbrand cut off, frustrated.

Nex faced forward again. "I wouldn't worry too much. Montfere is more equipped to handle blood and death runes than most."

"Why?"

"Because he knows death intimately." Nex nudged his horse to a quicker pace, leaving Marbrand behind. Marbrand watched him go for a few seconds, then growled and wheeled his horse to ride down the line, checking on his men.

When Montfere returned he'd sit the boy down and have a talk with him, and that was that.

Midway through the afternoon, just when Marbrand was considering a short break to let the men rest, Alvin and the others returned, pushing their horses hard.

"We found them," the scout said, reining in and immediately dismounting to begin wiping his mount down.

Marbrand reined in beside him. "What's it looking like?"

"Like ants pouring through a crack in the ground." The scout pointed to the hill to their left. "This canyon twists a short way ahead. We'll have a good view from atop there."

Marbrand glanced back at the others, who were taking the opportunity to rest, dropping into a squat or leaning against the walking staffs many had taken to carrying in the snow. "What about them?"

Alvin glanced back. "They'd better start heading back. And anyone who heads up the hill should probably have fresh horses waiting for them at the bottom. The Scourge are moving at a steady pace, one it looks like they've maintained this entire time."

. . . . .

Alvin's description of Menethil's army was surprisingly apt.

There was a host of undead below, moving slowly but steadily up the ravine, packed in from one side to the other and spilling up onto the hill wherever it wasn't too steep. They ranged from looking just dead to rotted to fully skeletal, from unarmed and unarmored to decked out in full rusting plate with keen weapons and shields. Some had been warped by the powers that animated them into ghouls or geists or blighted horrors. Abominations rumbled in the midst, knocking other undead aside in their unhurried waddle forward, and at the front of the host hundreds of necromancers and acolytes of the Cult of the Damned.

Throughout the army banners waved in their dozens, the Scourge banner with its representation of Frostmourne cutting between two crossed hammers with a perpendicular spike piercing two skulls to either side. Most of these banner poles were topped by a skull as well, human in appearance but eerily horned and twisted. The Lordaeron banner was also prevalent, creamy white centered by a stylized crimson L through which a holy symbol of the same color pierced. Only these banners were torn and tattered, the cream defiled by blood and viscera.

In the midst of the casters rode a full score of brutish skeletal creatures riding skeletal horses, fully armored and wielding greatswords. And in the midst of this undead honor guard rode the traitor of Lordaeron himself, atop a fearsome horned stallion. Menethil was fully armored in gilded plate and wore a cloak of finest satin and ermine. The very image of splendor, were it not for his pallid features and the cold blue light of the Scourge shining in his eyes. Nex almost feared to inspect Frostmourne with his second sight, such was the aura of cold and dread it gave off. It almost seemed to chill the air in waves around it. And although it was constructed for the purpose of strengthening its wielder rather than utilizing outright destructive power, it made NexTaeja look like an ornament beside it.

Nex was glad he wouldn't have to face Menethil, that it was a task his master would claim, because he honestly didn't see how he could stand against such raw, consuming power.

The only saving grace to this force down below, and its dread leader, was that Nex couldn't detect the frost wyrms they'd been warned about. Wherever they were, they weren't here.

His attention was drawn away from Menethil when Alvin spoke. "There's the tail end of the army coming around the bend. That must be all of them."

Nex frowned. His second sight didn't extend that far. "How far is it to the bend?"

"Two miles, give or take."

His frown deepened. "This feels wrong," he finally said, staring down at the valley. "The Traitor is with this force, he walks at its head. But if your gauge of distance is correct there can't be more than five thousand undead down there. If he brought the entire Scourge army with him from Lordaeron he should have ten times that. Fifty times."

"Maybe he's left the others behind and pressed forward in favor of haste. We have the lead on him, and his master is vulnerable."

"Perhaps. But the Scourge operates differently than other armies. They do not tire, they do not stop, and burdens may slow them but provide no other strain. Even if he moved forward with his fastest soldiers the slower would still be close behind him, and the slowest coming along. Do any of you see signs of any Scourge coming behind these."

"Boats, then?" Blackfinger asked. "He couldn't have been able to find them any easier than we did."

"Why not? There were thousands of ships plying the waters between the northern Eastern Kingdoms. That we didn't find any suggested that someone did. Unless Menethil is a complete fool he would have taken them for himself rather than scuttle them or leave them adrift, especially with the Scourge forces separated between Lordaeron and Northrend."

"Do you have a better notion?"

Nex nodded. "Maybe these were all the troops he could bring."

Marbrand grunted. "The Forsaken? You didn't seem to think they'd be much of a burden."

Nex continued to extend his second sight to the pass below. "Perhaps not by themselves. Havel and the banshee Ithelia both suggested the Lich King's hold was weakening. Perhaps these were all the troops Menethil could maintain control of."

"I don't believe it. Even without the Lich King's direct influence he had plenty of necromancers and powerful undead to hold the others in line. To say nothing of the dreadlords the Burning Legion has set as watchdogs over the Scourge."

"Yes, the dreadlords." Nex abruptly laughed. "Alvin, you had some tales from the Alliance army, didn't you? When Menethil made his triumphal return to Lordaeron City, wasn't his vaunted victory the defeat of the dreadlord Mal'Ganis?"

The scout frowned. "So I heard. What are you suggesting?"

"What if he acquired Frostmourne and became the Lich King's puppet _before _he slew Mal'Ganis?"

Marbrand blinked. "You mean dissension in the Scourge ranks?"

"More like among its leaders. If Ner'zhul has gone rogue and Menethil is his puppet and his alone, the dreadlords would want to see him destroyed and try to keep control of as large a portion of Scourge forces as they could. In fact, the Burning Legion as a whole would-" Nex abruptly cut off, feeling the blood drain from his face.

Marbrand took a step closer. "What?"

Nex leaned back, rubbing at his empty sockets through the cloth of his blindfold. "Gods of damnation, I'm such a fool."

Why was Stormrage so intent on destroying the Frozen Throne? What did a demon-corrupted night elf care what the undead did to humans on a world he'd abandoned? And he'd struck at the Frozen Throne using the Eye of Sargeras before he'd even fled to Outland in the first place.

Nex had accused his master of serving Kil'Jaeden and the Burning Legion, had even accused him of wanting to destroy the Lich King at their orders, but he hadn't stopped to consider why.

Ner'zhul _had_ gone rogue. As soon as he'd gained control of Menethil he'd used him to strike down the one dreadlord in Northrend. Then where had he sent him? Down to Lordaeron where the other dreadlords waited, either to subdue or destroy them. It was a coup, the Lich King trying to steal back the Scourge for his own purposes.

"What are you thinking, boy?" Marbrand demanded. "What did you realize?"

_I realized that Stormrage was right to worry about my army being under _your_ control, Marbrand. Because if you ever found out my master was the Burning Legion's enforcer on Azeroth, you'd turn on us for good._

And yet at the same time, whatever Stormrage's motives the fact remained that under the Burning Legion or on its own the Scourge represented a major threat to Azeroth. And while it might have shaken off the whips of its taskmasters it was still a product of the Burning Legion and the source of greatest chaos on Azeroth. The Frozen Throne needed to be destroyed, and now before the Scourge's power grew so great that it couldn't be stopped.

And if Stormrage and Menethil weakened each other in the process, perhaps even destroyed each other, so much the better.

But he was glad his freedom would be earned in the hour of the Frozen Throne's destruction, because he'd found a new enemy in Stormrage. Perhaps one he would never dare to face alone, but all the same.

"I was just considering implications," he said to the questioning stares of his companions. "We have to assume that in spite of Menethil's numbers these soldiers represent the best the Scourge has produced, including spellcasters and other nasty surprises. And there may indeed be slower reinforcements coming up behind, or other Scourge elements waiting to join up with them. We're going to do our best to harass them until they reach Captain Kanviel's position. From there we'll see how it goes."

"Harass the Scourge?" Marbrand said doubtfully. "That could end up turning out very bad."

Nex turned his thoughts away from the horrific realization he'd just had and focused on the task at hand. "Maybe, but it has to be done. His numbers are fewer than expected, but he's also coming on faster, and he'll cover far more ground than our main army no matter how they push. We have to slow him, and hope that Kanviel's prepared a choke point so unappetizing that he'll maul Menethil's forces if he tries to force his way through."

"Go toe to toe with Arthas," Marbrand mused. "From what I've heard no one's ever beaten him, living or dead. He'll probably swat us like flies."

"Flies can be surprisingly difficult to swat. We'd best be as well."

"Seems a big risk to go to," Blackfinger argued. "Why don't we return to the blood elves and work up a decent ambush."

"We were ordered to harry them."

"Orders be damned," the big man growled.

Nex might have disagreed in any other situation, but he could see the slow, relentless march of these Scourge quickly overtaking Stormrage's army pushing up the pass. "We have to hit them. Arthas has to be slowed."

Blackfinger laughed in disbelief. "Undead can't be slowed. If we hit them we're all going to die."

"We have to hit them," Nex said again. "You're right, undead can't be slowed. But they can be distracted, diverted, disorganized."

"Arthas will have too tight a rein on his forces to let us draw them into wild goose chases. And we all know how successful he's been as a military commander."

"Not even the greatest commander can be everywhere at once. I'm not talking about challenging the entire Scourge army here, I'm talking about nibbling wherever they're weak. Skirmishing."

Marbrand shook his head grimly. "We don't have the soldiers for skirmishing. What do we have? Recruits. They're barely competent to hold a line, they'd be hopeless at hit and run tactics. In fact it's best not to use them for any purpose here, since if we try a conventional battle Arthas will overrun us. Better to keep them out of his reach altogether."

Nex was about to speak when Olivia raised her voice, soft but firm, from where she'd been standing quietly at the back of the group. "Might I speak?"

The others were immediately attentive to her. "Of course, Lady Olivia," Marbrand replied, inclining his head.

"I've not faced Scourge under the command of anyone of the caliber of Arthas Menethil, but while I was obliged to serve the Scarlet Crusade they did take me on many patrols and expeditions. We had quite a few engagements with the Scourge, and I have some insight into how they operate."

"That insight will be of great value, my Lady."

She inclined her head graciously. "It's true our recruits are not hardened in battle, but I wouldn't say they are useless. They have a great deal of experience in one vital aspect of combat. Movement."

Havel snorted. "You want their contribution to our efforts to be . . . marching? What, impress them with our parade formations?"

But Marbrand wasn't smiling. "This is just the sort of use I'd be most hesitant to put them to."

Nex cut in. "I'm afraid I failed to make the intuitive leap Olivia's half-finished proposal has sparked in you, Marbrand."

The burned knight glanced over, grim. "Decoys. As long as our recruits can stay ahead of the Scourge, we can use them to draw Arthas out, maneuver him to our advantage."

"That assumes our ability to prepare tactics and strategy is superior to the commander who's never lost a battle."

Marbrand nodded. "Which is why I hesitate to attempt such a thing with untried recruits."

"We have no choice," Nex said firmly. "Arthas must be slowed, so I suggest you start planning."

. . . . .

At the juncture where three frozen rivers, three ravines cut deeply into the ice and rock, met up into one and continued on broad and straight for the north, Arthas Menethil, King of Lordaeron, leaned down from the saddle to pin a scrap of cloth on Frostmourne's blade. He lifted it for a closer inspection, letting it flap feebly in the breeze like a tormented soul trapped by his blade. A fitting image. Then he shook it off, letting it flutter back to the ground, and looked around.

An army had camped here. A tiny army, but there was no such thing as insignificant. Each death added to his host.

And he would need such numbers for the battles ahead. He'd come late, slowed by the rebellion of the dreadlord traitors, by the gall of Sylvanas and her so-called banshees. It irked him that he must leave Kel'Thuzad behind with so many to deal with the problem, when he'd need the lich's strength; he may be outnumbered by his enemies, and they held every inch of ground he needed to cover.

Kaliniel slipped through the ranks of his personal guard, falling to one knee. "They cannot be more than a day ahead of us, my liege," he said, voice rasping through a ruined larynx.

Arthas nodded, dismissing his High Ranger with a wave. "Then we will have them in three," he said to his officers. "For they waste a third of every day to their mortal weakness and we do not." There was no reply but silent acceptance of his words.

As he spurred his skeletal charger into motion the King of Lordaeron reached over his shoulder and closed a gauntleted fist around the grip of his sword, his soul. "Ready, Frostmourne."

. . . . .

"Are you sure this is going to work?" Saire hissed. "There's got to be almost five hundred casters down there."

"They just came in sight of their quarry," Nex answered. "Their eyes will be on the recruits. Then Alvin will hit the rear and they'll all be fighting against each other to push back there. That's when we hit."

"You sure we have enough for this?"

"Either way we do it and run like hell," Nova said. That was answer enough for Nex.

Farther back from the cliff Bobbulus was scribbling on his notepad. _Where are all the air? The dragonhawk riders reported bats, gargoyles, even frost wyrms._

Nex answered before the mage showed him the note. "He likely sent them ahead to his master's aid. Pity for him, since minions in the air are such an effective counter against skirmishers."

Saire glared at the fat undead with outright hostility. Nex had no idea what had gotten into the two of them, what their history was, but after the confrontation with Kanviel on their way back to camp Saire had come around a tent and into sight of where Bobbulus and Havel waited beside Havel's mules.

Recognition had seemed mutual, and response instantaneous. Bobbulus began casting, gathering a frostbolt in his hand, while Saire took the far more pragmatic response of leaping forward with a screech and clawing at his eyes. Amusing if she'd succeeded, to have a mage that was blind _and_ deaf. Of course then Bobbulus would've been useless.

Bobbulus shoved the frostbolt into her face from point-blank, which Saire responded to with her dragon's breath spell, burning away the frostbolt and singeing the undead's hand.

That was about the point that Nova pried Saire off the fat undead, while Havel gripped Bobbulus by the top of his sparsely haired head and told him to sit down. Which Bobbulus, to everyone's surprise, did. Only Nex was able to sense the sharp mental nudge that had accompanied the verbal command.

"What the hell is going on?" he'd demanded.

Saire spat at the fat undead. "He's a mage who demands more than just dedication from his apprentices."

Whatever Bobbulus's grievance had been, he'd expressed it with nothing other than the pure loathing in his eyes, while his hands made a little snowman which he topped with a strand of her coppery hair, then pointedly crushed.

To avoid further unpleasantness Nex had tightened Bob's oaths to specifically include avoiding Saire and causing her no harm. As for Saire, he'd made it Nova's job to keep her away from the fat undead, although she seemed to have no desire to be around him.

And that was that.

A commotion from the south drew their gaze, and Nova sat up. "Alvin, you think?"

Nex's second sight didn't extend far enough to see, but the Scourge forces below were definitely slowing, some starting to turn back. "Let's go," he said. "Bobbulus."

The frost mage narrowed his eyes, pressing his pudgy hand to the ritual circle they'd prepared. Immediately the air around them grew chillier, while the frost on the ground cracked, then cracked again, as the undead channeled cold down into the stones beneath them.

Nova ducked his head back over the ledge. "The casters below are definitely sensing that. Some are starting to respond."

About that time Bob gave an incoherent grunt and went flying through the air, struck by a counterspell of surprising power. Nex nodded to Saire. "In pulses." Together they pressed their hands down on the circle, and Nex sent fire cutting down through the rock, heating it. Beside him Saire was doing the same, her spell more spread and less focused; she wasn't used to doing this sort of thing.

Below them the ice cracked then vaporized, and then came the lower, deeper crack of stone breaking. Nex cut off his spell. "Bob!"

The fat undead struggled up the slope and slapped his hand down, sending his frost even deeper into the stone. This time he managed to cut off before the counterspell from below, which came quicker than before. Then Nex and Saire once again pressed their hands down. "Until we're countered," he said. And unleashed his power at the quickest rate he could manage.

Beneath them the earth heaved, a crack like lightning splitting the air. The stone, supercooled and then just as quickly superheated, shattered in a line. They'd chosen this spot for the fact that the ledge was undercut below, leaning far out over the Scourge forces. The shattering rock sheared off a gigantic slab of rock, which teetered for a moment, groaning, then broke away and fell.

Nex didn't stay around to watch the undead packed below being crushed; he was already hobbling down the hill towards the horses, vaguely aware of Saire tumbling to a landing halt below him and then struggling to get to her feet so she, too, could run. Counterspells were far easier than specifically targeting an enemy you couldn't see, but there were a _lot_ of casters down there.

And they were going to be pissed.

. . . . .

In front of him Janis was still dancing through the undead, still apparently unscathed. Alvin had no idea how the monk managed to shatter bone with his palms like that, but every time an undead swung at him broken fingers went flying in all directions as the monk disarmed them and counterattacked.

For his part he was hacking as swiftly as he could, shoving on his shield with all his might to keep the undead pressing against it at bay.

_Keep them from moving_, Nex had said. Easier said than done when you had fifty skeletal champions battering at you with the weight of an entire undead army behind them. Olivia was chanting behind him, a prayer to give his group of skirmishers fortitude and courage.

He hacked at the hip of a champion and watched it fall, only to be presented with the view of a skeletal mage not five feet in front of him, hands glowing blue as it prepared a spell.

Then the undead caster flipped through the air. Alvin stared in surprise, seeing no one there, until he looked down and realized that Ilinar had hit it low, swinging a torpedo upwards to sweep it off its feet. As it started to fall the boy was there, his torpedo cracking down against the thing's skull. There wasn't much force behind the blow, but even as the undead tried to skitter away Ilinar hit it again, then again, until it finally dropped twitching uncontrollably. Alvin surged forward to protect the boy from the other undead swarming around them.

Then he heard a deafening roar from the ravine ahead, and looked up in time to see an entire section of it break away and fall.

Time for them to break away and fall as well. Fall back, that was. "Retreat!" he bellowed, cutting through another hulking skeleton's arm just above the wrist and watching its longsword fly away. Then he turned and ran three steps until he was forced to defend himself from an undead flying against him from the side. He had to break away three times before he finally managed to disengage. Montfere was running just a step ahead as they bolted down the canyon.

Olivia was just ahead, running awkwardly in the trampled snow. When Janis reached her the monk simply picked her up, slinging her onto his back. Alvin was shocked by the man's strength, for all his unimposing size.

"You think they'll follow?" Ilinar asked, sounding almost hopeful.

Alvin laughed. "I hope so. Anything to slow them down, Nex said."

They reached the horses and mounted, then trotted down the ravine until they reached a side cut leading northwest. It led up to the ridge above, and from there they were able to cut due north until they met up with Nex and the mages.

"Losses?" Nex asked.

Alvin turned a quick eye over his force, counting the empty saddles. "Four."

"Not bad," the Castaway said from where he rode beside the elf mage. He rarely left her side, and people had taken to pitching their tents farther away from theirs for the noise.

"Not bad," Nex agreed. "But it's just the beginning. We've got a long, tiring run ahead of us to Angrathar Pass with the Scourge nipping at our heels, and we need to pause every now and again to nip back."

"Speaking of which, any idea of how Marbrand's doing?" the Castaway asked.

The question was answered by a roar and the sight of flames licking up in the east.

. . . . .

"Back!" Marbrand screamed, the word ending in a strangled hacking cough as smoke billowed around him. His armor was scorching, and it almost came as a relief when a frostbolt exploded four feet away and coated him with freezing shards, rooting him in place for a brief moment and slowing his movements, but still a blessed relief from the heat.

With Blackfinger beside him leading the rearguard the others doggedly disengaged, and then it was their turn to break free from the tide of undead surging toward them. Even after they managed to get away and were sprinting back to the horses a group of geists plagued their heels, forcing them to turn and do battle nearly with every step.

Light above, the things moved almost as fast as horses!

But finally they reached mounts, cut down a score of geists, and managed to mount up and gallop to the northeast just before a host of spellcasters came in range to begin lobbing spells at them again.

Olivia's idea had been a good one. Let Kyle and the more timid recruits march ahead, racing for the Pass and giving the Scourge something to follow. Meanwhile they'd split the veterans and bolder recruits into two mounted forces to constantly harry the undead from the east and west. Marbrand had the larger force, Alvin had the casters. He envied the other man's luck of the draw, but the positioning had been better for an overhanging shelf on the west side.

On the east there wasn't so much a cliff to the ravine as a gradual upward slope that the horses had little difficulty getting up, while half a hundred undead continued to doggedly pursue, falling farther and farther behind.

"What do you think?" Blackfinger asked, reining in beside him as they slowed from a gallop to a fast walk.

"If they keep following we'll lead them away from the main force then wheel and rake them a few times. If they're not too big a threat we'll try to take them out altogether."

"How many do you think we got, there?"

Marbrand grimaced. "A dozen at most."

"And three empty saddles. That's a bad tradeoff, Dare."

"Nex and the casters scored the big hit there. We'll have plenty of chances to make a better showing of ourselves, starting with these pursuers."

His friend scowled inside his helmet. "And if the Scourge operates the way everyone says it does we might be fighting our own reanimated friends at some point."

He looked away, not liking the taste of that. "Then we'll give them the mercy of a permanent death."

. . . . .

Nex had thought he'd been generous, beginning the protracted engagement only three days away from Angrathar Pass. But to his chagrin even he'd underestimated the tenacity of the Scourge forces. They just kept coming and coming, never caught by surprise when they turned and engaged. None of the forces on the west side had managed to snatch more than a few hours of sleep here and there the entire time, and it was always the lookout calling out approaching Scourge that set them moving again.

The men were all starting to droop, their steps shuffling and their eyes dull. After the first day they'd been forced to dismount and walk the horses half the time, and by the second day the horses looked as pathetic and miserable as the rest of them, tails limp and necks drooping.

Nex didn't know how Marbrand was doing to the east, or even if he was still there, but he knew the main force of recruits fleeing ahead of the Scourge were in big trouble. They had no horses to spell them, only their own legs kicking through the deep snow trying to stay ahead of legs that didn't tire. There, too, Nex's estimation of the lead they had had proved generous.

He wasn't sure if they'd even be able to reach Angrathar Pass ahead of the Scourge. A couple had already collapsed, unable to continue, and their screams as the undead poured over them had seemed to ring in the air for an eternity.

They were only a few hours from the Pass when Nex decided they'd done enough skirmishing. "Push on ahead and meet up with the main force," he told Alvin. "If Marbrand hasn't already joined up with you send the person with the freshest horse out after him."

"What about you?"

Nex smiled grimly. "Anything to slow the Scourge down."

"What, going to blow yourself up in the middle of them again?"

Nex shook his head and dismounted, handing the reins of his horse over to the scout. He'd have to trust in magic strengthening his body for an extended period for the first time in over a week.

As the others rode on Nex made for the only high ground in the area that looked as if it would serve his purpose. He had to cut through a few undead to get to it, but he didn't have to use too much of his strength for them; torpedoes served his purpose well enough.

Once he'd topped the rise he realized to his irritation that the large flags indicating Arthas's location in the army were passing far, far to the east of where he stood, well out of hearing. Nex drew NexTaeja a fraction of an inch. _Mind if I use your power? _The sword responded with rage at him asking in such a fashion, but Nex ignored it as power flowed into him. The only use he put the power to was to release it into the air, letting it rise up like a beacon nearly fifty yards straight upwards.

Like far too many of those in positions of influence and authority, Arthas was ruled by his pride. He was, perhaps, the most perfect example of blind pride to be found, the tales of his reckless actions in defiance of his own father, as well as his mentor and superior as a paladin, legendary across Azeroth.

And pride mixed with honor made a combination easily exploited.

His beacon immediately drew the attention of the nearby Scourge, turning them towards his position. Among those approaching was one of Arthas's personal guard riding a deathcharger. Nex waited until the creature was in range, circling around the rise to where the slope was gradual enough to accommodate his horse. "Send for your master, undead! I would have words with the traitor Arthas Menethil!"

A hollow laugh echoed from within the rider's helm. "You think yourself worthy to summon the King of Lordaeron, boy?"

Nex sneered down at the rider. "I see no king. I see a pathetic coward who slaughtered innocents, who murdered an old man who stood before him with welcoming eyes, who betrayed an unsuspecting ally. I call upon the kinslayer, the traitor, accursed. I call upon him to face me in combat mortal!"

Another laugh echoed from within the helm. "Brave words, the words of a puppy yapping at a danger he cannot begin to conceive of. Face me instead, mortal. I am Marwyn Erastide, Captain of my King's elite knights and footmen and Death Knight of the Scourge."

"I know that name, for it's whispered as a curse throughout the refugee camps. You followed in your coward Prince's footsteps and joined your companion Falric in slaughtering the citizens of Lordaeron after the murder of King Terenas. You stood and watched that murder personally, forswearing all vows of honor and loyalty. You are not worthy to face my blade."

Marwyn's snarl echoed from within his helmet, and he drew his sword, inscribed with runes and glowing with a cold light. "I will cut you down in my King's name!"

Nex ignored the death knight's words, noting that the main body of the Scourge had turned aside, drawn by the beacon he continued to channel. He raised his voice as loud as he could manage. "Arthas! Come, coward, and face me in combat!"

Marwyn abruptly reined in at the bottom of the hill, snarling in irritation. "The King comes for you, cur," he called. "You do not know the honor you've been given, that your soul will writhe in eternal torment within Frostmourne."

Nex made no reply, waiting and watching as the exhausted recruits limped farther and farther away. But before too long his attention was drawn back to the approaching traitor and his honor guard when Arthas called out to him. His voice reverberated through the air, low and resonant.

"**You dare challenge me? Tell me by what right I should not simply kill you, rather than doing you the honor of personal combat."**

Nex turned his attention one more time to the recruits as they passed out of range of his second sight. "By the right of being unable to catch me!" he called back. He slammed NexTaeja back into its sheath and turned for the one direction that wasn't yet blocked by approaching Scourge, to the northwest. Sprinting at best speed, he levitated to increase his distance. Somewhere behind him a caster dispelled the effect, and he fell almost ten feet before restoring it and sinking a few dozen feet closer to the ground.

Behind him Marwyn's voice rang out. "Coward! You make a mockery of a sacred tradition of knighthood!" Around his shout the traitor's roar of contempt and fury could be heard.

_As if any of you have a right to preach about sacred traditions or the honor of knighthood._ Nex's levitation was dispelled once more, but this time he was close enough to the ground to land on his right leg, gritting even so as his left leg was jarred. He limped away at the best speed he could manage.

Arthas didn't follow, of course. In fact he'd already turned away; to be challenged to single combat and then watch your challenger flee put him beneath your contempt. And Marwyn, though he spurred his deathcharger forward to ride him down, eventually gave up when Nex scaled a slope of scree too treacherous for his mount. He might've been happy to cut Nex down for the insult he'd offered, but he wasn't about to dismount for the task.

Watching the Scourge force once again turn north to Angrathar Pass, Nex cut off the power strengthening his body and sagged to the ground. After a moment he reached into his pouch and drew out a few strips of frozen meat. He wouldn't have long to rest if he wanted to help his army at the Pass, but after the chaos of the past few days, mostly protecting himself and his soldiers from Scourge spellcasters, he was in desperate need of his regenerative trance. Or possibly the sleep that would replace it now that he was trying to behave as if he were still alive.

Even so, his hands were shaking as he lifted the food to his mouth. He'd drawn the ire of a creature far beyond his own strength. It was as close as he'd come to thumbing his nose at death since he'd stood before his master in the Black Temple and challenged him to kill him. But in a way this was far worse.

While possible, it was unlikely Stormrage would have captured his soul for eternity.


	18. The Old Kingdom

Chapter Seventeen

The Old Kingdom

Marbrand reined in, staring to the southwest. "Do you see that?"

Blackfinger paused in slipping his greataxe back into its straps on his back. "What, the pillar of light over there?"

"Pillar of Light," Marbrand corrected. "Who's casting it?"

The big man shrugged, not seeming to care. "Olivia, probably, or Havel."

"What possible purpose could they have? This looks more like something the Scourge would make use of, a beacon like that."

"The epitome of darkness on Azeroth, channeling a pillar of the Holy Light," his friend repeated doubtfully.

Marbrand pointed farther south. "Look, it's drawn the Scourge host."

"Well then whatever it is it's buying our army time to get away." Blackfinger kicked his horse into motion. "We should join them."

Marbrand followed, the rest of their party coming behind. Twice they had to ride around roaming pockets of undead, choosing to make straight for the recruits. Within ten minutes they'd reached the back of the line, where Alvin and the others had apparently just arrived and were walking their horses.

"Thank the Light you're all right," Alvin said as they rode up, smiling with relief.

Marbrand felt his own sense of relief, seeing Olivia with them and apparently unharmed. She sensed his gaze and turned, smiling at him, and he looked away quickly in embarrassment. Then he searched the group again, frowning. "Where's Lord Nex?"

"If I had to make a guess?" Alvin pointed south, to where the pillar of Light still shone.

Marbrand resisted the urge to curse. Again with that young fool running off alone. "Well he's bought us time. I suggest we use it." Almost the moment he said it the pillar winked out, and he saw the main Scourge army beginning to turn back their way. "In fact, I insist," he said, pointing.

Alvin glanced over, then cursed. "Break's over, lads!" he called. "Double time! We're almost to Angrathar Pass and the protection of our allies!"

The weary army gave a collective groan and pushed to their feet, stumbling forward. Marbrand counted it fortunate they were almost there, because by the looks of things they couldn't go on much longer.

And whatever his irritation at Nex's recklessness, the Scourge would be almost upon them if he hadn't acted.

In spite of making their best speed, putting the most exhausted soldiers on the horses while the slightly fresher skirmishers continued on foot, the Scourge army continued to close. By the time they reached the incline just before the Pass, which dropped into a gradual decline for a few hundred yards before where the entrance rose steeply, the Scourge was only five minutes behind them at best.

"Run ahead, Alvin," Marbrand ordered. "Let the elves know the Scourge are right behind us and we're joining up with them."

The scout responded with a heartfelt curse, then lurched forward in a weary lope up the incline, disappearing. Marbrand led the army after him. Together they made the top of the incline and started down, grateful for the minor reprieve of going downhill. Five hundred yards to where the elves had lined up, four hundred, three hundred.

"Marbrand!" Alvin called, running back toward them. There was warning in his tone.

Marbrand looked at the line of elvish faces, tense and wary. Preparation for battle with the approaching Scourge? Understandable if so, as were the rigid positions they held. He led his men forward, and as soon as he was within calling distance called out. "Open ranks! We'll join your formation."

In answer the elves drew their weapons, as one, the bunched Rangers behind setting arrows to bowstrings and drawing. It was as clear a threat as Marbrand had ever seen.

He skidded to a halt, lifting his shield. "Prepare for volley!" he shouted to the men behind him, half of whom awkwardly broke marching ranks to form a line while the others simply halted where they were and lifted their shields. Some kept on going, bumping into those ahead of them.

Then Kanviel's voice, clipped and haughty, echoed the distance between their two forces. "Stand down, human forces! You'll turn to face the Scourge where you are, as our first line of defense."

Marbrand stared at the elf in disbelief. "That makes no sense!" he shouted back. "We'd only serve to weaken both defending forces if we face the Scourge piecemeal."

"You have your orders," the elf captain answered. "Disobey and approach our lines and I will judge it an attack."

"No way, Marbrand," Blackfinger growled beside him. "No fucking way I turn my back on an army that just drew weapons on me."

Marbrand was inclined to agree. He wouldn't trust the elves at his back after what they'd just done; they could as easily begin loosing volleys against the Scourge with no care for which arrows hit a Son of Lothar by accident.

He looked around, assessing, then pointed with his sword. "There, Blackfinger. We'll put our backs to that ridge. If the Scourge ignore us and go after the elves we can flank them, but if they come after us we'll still be able to keep an eye on the elves."

Blackfinger nodded and began roaring out commands, sending their forces jogging for the ground at the base of the cliff at an oblique angle, so they could still keep their shields between themselves and the elves. The elves watched it all impassively, but thankfully they didn't take it as a threat and begin loosing volleys. Under their stern eyes the Sons of Lothar lined up with the cliff at their backs, forming a triangle that widened the farther back it went. With any luck that positioning would funnel the majority of the Scourge up the Pass and into the arms of Kanviel.

His men were too weary to fight long. Hell, they were too weary to even be standing. But they were, and so Marbrand sat his saddle with the cavalry back behind the line, ready to lead a charge. And as one his people waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally Marbrand nudged his horse the line, staring up the slope. Arthas and his forces _had_ to have reached them by now. Was he preparing some strategy? Perhaps decided to pass them by entirely and scale the cliffs with his undead? Better for everyone if he made such a foolish blunder, for even undead couldn't climb mountains swiftly, and Illidan would have long since reached the Frozen Throne by the time they reached it.

Unless of course he was only having them climb as far as the ridges and peaks overlooking Angrathar Pass. At which point he could mount an attack on them from all sides, and every advantage the elves had in holding the choke point would be turned against them.

"Castaway!" he called. "Take five scouts and find the Scourge army. I want to know what Arthas is doing."

The elf nodded and slipped through the ranks, trotting up the hill. His arms were half-raised as if expecting to duck a blow the moment any enemies poured over the rise in front of him. But he made the top and simply stood for a moment. Then he turned and, unhurried, trotted back. "The Scourge are turning!" he shouted as soon as he was in earshot. "They're making their way west!"

West? Why would Arthas turn away from Angrathar and the most direct route? Surely the meager defense Kanviel and his rearguard offered couldn't have deterred him.

Unless there was a better route.

But it didn't matter now. "Castaway, get back up there with some lookouts and give us some warning if they change their minds." He raised his voice to a shout. "Everyone else, at ease!" The army made a sort of collective sigh as almost everyone collapsed to the ground where they were standing, shivering at sitting in the snow but too weary to arrange tents or even groundcloths.

Marbrand refused the temptation to do the same, keeping his back stiff as he joined Olivia in finding and tending to the wounded and sick. She looked as weary as he, but grateful for his company nonetheless. She even leaned on his arm for a time after standing from a particularly difficult healing.

"Sir," Blackfinger said after a few minutes, and Marbrand turned to see a handful of elves approaching. His weariness gave way to rage as he went out to meet them.

"Human," the leader said coldly. "Why are your men breaking discipline?"

"The Scourge have turned away," Marbrand answered with equal coldness. "And you have no grounds to speak to us. Return to your captain and yap in his ears."

The elf ignored him. "If the Scourge have turned aside Kanviel commands you to continue obeying your orders to skirmish with the undead and keep abreast of Scourge movements."

"You can tell Kanviel to go bugger himself with his army's standard," Blackfinger snarled, stepping out ahead of Marbrand with his greataxe in his hands. "And you'd better do it quick, before I decide to send him a more direct message."

Marbrand knew he should reprove the big man for his rash words, but he was angry enough to agree.

The elves were, wisely, backing away. "You dare? Once again humans turn on us with no cause?"

"No cau-"

"Return to camp, Blackfinger." Marbrand's senses had returned. He turned to face the elves. "We will follow orders once our people have had some rest. If Kanviel is frantic to know of Scourge doings he's welcome to send out his own Rangers."

"You will follow orders now," the elf shot back. He turned and stalked back towards his army, companions following along behind.

Blackfinger stared at him. "You can't seriously mean that. We're going to do what those bastards say after they-"

"Damn them," Marbrand said, cutting in. "Damn their orders, and damn the Scourge. I just didn't want to give them cause to attack us outright. We're marching back the way we came. We're going home."

Blackfinger's expression eased. "About time, too," he said. He started to turn, but Marbrand lunged forward and caught his arm.

"Don't tell the men yet. For now I think it's better if we put some distance between ourselves and Kanviel. Give them a few minutes then get them on their feet, we'll follow the mountains westward for a bit to make it look like we're going after the Scourge."

"What if Arthas decides to send some of his forces around and pin us?"

"We won't be going that far. We can only hope his in too much of a hurry."

Blackfinger nodded and turned away. The army rested for a time, Marbrand finally letting himself rest as well. As he sat atop his shield Lady Olivia came and lowered herself to her knees in front of him, not far away. "It's good you've made this decision," she said.

Marbrand's eyes narrowed. "You heard, how? You were almost fifty yards away."

"There are no secrets in the Light." She leaned forward to rest a small hand on his gauntlet. "Normally I would say fight to the end, but a wise man knows when it's better to withdraw and save his men."

Marbrand said nothing, shamed to hear his decision put in such a way. And from this gracious lady's lips as well. After a time Olivia stood and moved away.

When the recruits had had a chance to rest a little, Marbrand got them all back on their feet and trudging west along the mountains. They could have gone farther, but he was content with seeing them a mile away, secluded in a little hollow. Aside from the sentries, most immediately set their tents and crawled inside. Some just laid out the tent cloth and collapsed atop it beneath their blankets. Marbrand did a round of the pickets to make sure everyone was alert, then began the laborious process of assessing their supplies and checking the condition of the horses.

An hour later Nex limped into camp.

. . . . .

The young lord was seated at the fire, eating dinner, with Blackfinger looming beside him. At Marbrand's approach the young lord looked up. "Marbrand," he said calmly. "Blackfinger has been telling me of your trouble with the elves at Angrathar Pass. You handled the situation as well as you could have, I believe."

"Where the hell have you been?" Marbrand demanded. "I thought you were dead."

Nex paused in taking a bite, looking up. To Marbrand it looked like the young lord believed that he'd hoped for it as well, which wasn't true. "The Scourge turned west before I could rejoin you. And I know why."

Marbrand laughed. "Good, mystery solved. You can tell the elves what Arthas plans." Once that was done with they could turn south and leave all this behind.

"The mystery isn't solved at all. Arthas was intercepted by a party of creatures unfamiliar to me, insect-like but obviously undead. Their leader had the appearance of a giant beetle or scarab, powerfully carapaced and roughly the size of one of the naga's giant turtles."

Marbrand's eyes widened. "That big?"

"That big. The smaller undead insectoids accompanying him bear resemblance to creatures the Scourge employed to a limited extent in Lordaeron, which the soldiers of the Alliance army call crypt fiends."

"And this beetle creature that leads them is their crypt lord?"

"Sure, why not. In any case the crypt lord exchanged words with Menethil, at which point the Scourge army turned west. Either Menethil was warned that Angrathar Pass is sufficiently guarded to slow him more than he can afford to be slowed, and an alternative way has been offered, or he's being led to a shorter path that's far more desirable. Given that the Scourge is familiar with this land and Kanviel's forces couldn't do more than slow him, I believe the second is the more likely."

"Probably," Marbrand said, not trying to hide his reluctance. None of this mattered to them anymore.

But Nex didn't seem to realize what he meant. "All right, then," he said, standing. "Our first step is to follow and find out where the crypt lord is leading Menethil. We'll have to delay him, or at the least send advance warning of the path he takes."

Marbrand straightened to his full height. "No." Nex looked at him with silent question, and he steeled himself. "No, my Lord. I told you what Kanviel did."

"Yes. And at one point an elvish army actually tried to kill me, but I still worked with them to achieve the objective I'd been given."

Marbrand had to hold back disbelieving laughter. "Then you're a madman. We're going home."

The young lord went perfectly, totally still, somehow managing to convey such menace that Marbrand took half a step back. "You're going home," he repeated quietly. "When did you decide this."

"After the elves drew weapons on us and told us to die while they watched!" Marbrand snapped.

"And so you've decided to forget about the Lich King and the northlands becoming a diseased, blighted wasteland?"

Marbrand clenched his fists. "I've forgotten nothing! But there can be no doubt about it, Nex. The elves want us dead. What can we do under such circumstances?"

"That the elves despise us isn't exactly news."

"No! This goes beyond accusing us of crimes or thinking us an inferior race. It even goes beyond not caring whether we survive an engagement. The elves have no interest in even spending our lives wisely for the purpose. They're going to waste us, let us die senseless deaths."

"And what would you have me do about it?"

"There's nothing _to_ do but go home! Let them fight their war in the way they wish, we can still preserve all our people and escape this."

Nex stared at him coldly. "I cannot do that."

"Why?" the burned knight shouted. "What loyalty do you have to these people?"

"No, I literally cannot abandon this cause. And neither can you. We both swore to fight to the Frozen Throne before being released from service. Unless you wish to be seen an oathbreaker and craven, this talk of retreat is a pleasant fantasy and nothing more."

"We swore, yes, but we swore to _you_. You can release us, my Lord. You can save our lives. Why would you not?"

"And then you'd abandon me, to go on alone without an army? Beyond that, the elves may have no interest in fighting alongside us, but they're not as yet openly attacking us. Our duty to humanity says we must do whatever we can to destroy the Frozen Throne and end the Scourge threat. Even if we must do it alone."

Marbrand stared at him, stricken. "You won't release us?"

Nex faced him squarely. "If you can tell me, Marbrand, that our presence here won't tip the scales in this struggle, that without us the elves and naga are guaranteed to do humanity's job for us, then I will let you go and continue on alone." He hardened his tone. "But you had best be convincing, for the sake of your own honor."

The other man looked away. "Damn you, Nex," he growled. "Damn you for bringing us into this nest of enemies. The elves are right to name you Lokiv. You abuse the honor of decent men when you have none yourself."

Nex let the words wash over him unfelt. "I put purpose before pride, Marbrand. However it must be done, the Frozen Throne will be destroyed."

Marbrand laughed bitterly. "You put purpose before _everything_."

Nex's reply was very soft. "This purpose, yes." He turned away. "I swore to see as many of you home as I could manage, remember. Whatever the elves say or do, _I _have no intention of wasting your lives without meaning. I don't break my oaths, not in anything."

Marbrand could make no reply. The thought of having to tell all this to Blackfinger sickened him. He could only hope that the big man and Olivia had had the sense not to spread news of them going home around, or he'd have an army whose morale couldn't be lower.

. . . . .

His hope was in vain.

By morning he was hearing open talk around the campfires, discussions whether it would be better to retrace their steps or just push straight south. A few of the women recruits were gossiping about Stormwind, wondering if it was as peaceful as everyone said.

Marbrand simply listened for a few minutes, wandering through the fires, hearing the hope, like a lead blanket lifted off the shoulders of these young men and women, and some not so young.

Then tore the cloth off Blackfinger's tent, ignoring the big man's roar of protest and Geana's embarrassed squeal as she yanked Blackfinger's cloak up to cover her nakedness. Blackfinger rose, half dressed, and Marbrand caught him by the belt and yanked him away from the ruin of his tent.

"What the hell?" Blackfinger demanded, rooting himself in place like an old stump.

Marbrand whirled and got in his face. "That's _my_ question, Lew! Why is everyone talking about going home?"

"Talking about . . . Dare, I've been in my tent since my watch ended last night. What do you mean, talking?"

"I mean a half dozen hens are clucking around the fire about opening a damn seamstresses' shop in Stormwind! Everybody knows we were homeward bound."

His friend had gone sullen. "Nobody heard it from me."

"Like hell. And I suppose the rumor just sprang up overnight?"

Blackfinger shook his head fiercely. "I tell you, Dare, _nobody_ heard talk of going home from my lips. I'm not such a fool as to let news of something like that get around before the commander's even announced it."

"Are you suggesting Olivia did so?"

"I don't know, maybe! Or maybe the men just came to that conclusion on their own, since it's the only obvious Light-damned conclusion to make!"

Marbrand growled. "However the rumor started, this couldn't be worse. The men have had a taste of what the Scourge can do, they know our allies have no loyalty to us, and now they've got going home in their heads. Trying to keep them to the purpose now will be a nightmare!"

"Well then let Nex do it. Everyone resents him anyway, and he wasn't around when we made the decision. If you try to tell them we're marching north you'll lose half the army."

"Lose it to what? Men going to desert and go off into the snow alone?"

"No, they're going to mutiny!"

Marbrand shook his head. "No. Gather everyone up, I'll speak to them." He hesitated. "And get our veterans and anyone we can trust and have them situated among the crowd, ready to handle anything that may arise."

His friend sighed. "With this news, Dare, they'll be complaining the loudest."

"Gather them." Marbrand turned and strode towards the crimson tent where Lady Olivia slept. Janis was outside, doing his odd limbering-up dance that involved stretches and lunges Marbrand couldn't have managed twenty years ago.

The monk smoothly straightened as Marbrand approached. "Sir?"

"I'm here to talk to the Lady."

"Of course. As long as you do not overly disturb her, she's had a wearying-hey!"

Marbrand ignored the monk and pulled aside the flap, poking his head and shoulders into the tent.

"Sir Marbrand," Olivia gasped in surprise, sitting up sharply in her small tent and pulling her discarded furs up around her linen undergarment. "This is most improper."

Marbrand remained leaning in through the flaps. "I apologize, Lady. But I must know. Did you tell anyone of my plans to turn south for home?"

Her blue eyes widened in shock. "My Lord, why would I do such a thing? Why, that sort of gossip before any declaration is made, it could ruin an army's spirits!"

Marbrand met her eyes, searching, but found only sincerity there. "I am glad you understand the need for discretion. I am sorry to have disturbed you in such a fashion."

She inclined her head graciously. "In a matter such as this one, it can be excused I think. I thank you for your consideration nonetheless."

"Good morning, then." Marbrand ducked out of the tent. Janis was giving him a frosty look, so he bowed to the man. "I apologize for intruding in such a fashion."

"I take it, then, that we're _not_ going home?"

"I'm not. I've given my word, as have my men." Marbrand sighed. "As have all the recruits who signed on, including you. What remains to be seen is if people hoping to go home will be willing to keep that word."

"When a man promises to eat what's set before him, he cannot complain of bread and water when he dreams at night of wine and honey."

Marbrand almost told the monk to go sod himself.

Ten minutes later his army was arrayed before him in strict lines. Good thinking on Blackfinger's part, that. Marbrand sat his horse in front of them. "Men, Lord Nex has brought back information that the Scourge army has turned southwest following a guide that arrived just before Arthas reached the Angrathar Pass. We have been charged to follow and see where the Scourge are going."

Murmuring spread among the assembled soldiers. "But we're not going, right?" Geana called. "We're going home, right?"

Marbrand hesitated. "We've given our oaths to battle the Scourge all the way to the Frozen Throne and see it destroyed. It's why we're here."

Another recruit spoke up. "But we're not following the orders of elves, are we? Those bastards would've watched us die and cut down any of us who tried to run!"

These words drew a far more positive reception among the weary, dispirited troops than Marbrand's own. A chorus of assent, a few angry shouts. Then one man called "homeward for me!" and the entire army became unruly, shouting and calling out their wishes, their opinions.

Marbrand motioned to Blackfinger, who began thumping the head of his giant axe into the ground. The other veterans joined in, slamming weapons to shields, clapping gauntlets to breastplates, until their din overwhelmed the shouting of the recruits.

All the while Marbrand watched. He'd intended to tell them without question that they were going to stay in Northrend until the campaign was finished, but he had a feeling that would be a bad idea at this point. Even with the discipline of his veterans some had been raising their own cries. So he would relent, a little. "We'll find out where the Scourge army is going, and make sure Lord Illidan's forces know of any threat. That, at the least, is our duty."

"And then?" Kyle called.

Marbrand met the youth's eyes firmly. "And then we see whether there is aught else we can do to help this war. Do not forget what the Scourge has done, to all of us! Do not forget that this represents our best and perhaps last chance to destroy them utterly!"

Bedlam ensued once more, and once more Marbrand set Blackfinger and the veterans to making their noise. When it was quieter, although silence was probably impossible, he raised his voice. "We march in twenty minutes, and that's the last I'll hear of this. Get to breaking camp!"

He marched them hard that day, both because the Scourge was tireless and they needed to keep up, and because he wanted his men to be so weary they'd simply fall into their blankets, too tired to talk or even think.

The nights had shortened to less than four hours of darkness, and it was nearly first light before they finished marching and he let them sleep.

. . . . .

"What are you doing?"

Montfere jerked in surprise, then fumbled a fold of his cloak over the blade before turning. "Nothing."

Nex smiled, not kindly. "You think cloth can hide anything from me?"

The boy looked away. "They come to my mind. I saw a painting of Frostmourne, once. "The Fall of Silvermoon", it was called. Some craven painted the battle rather than raising arms to protect his home. But anyway the runes were poorly rendered, obviously incorrect. Thinking back on them now I can see how they should be."

"It's not going to work." And that was true. But even so, this wasn't the sort of activity Nex would've encouraged the boy in.

Montfere's eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You think you can take old blood from squirrels and paint a few designs on an inferior sword, and suddenly you have a runeblade? Has battling a few skeletons given you a taste for fighting the Scourge?"

"I can feel the power-"

"You feel a few piddling spurts. You've made three mistakes in your efforts. First, you'd do best with heartblood from sentient creatures, your blade driven fresh into them as they beat their last. Secondly you must have power to imbue into the runes, which you don't. Nothing major, at least. And finally, biggest mistake of all, you're trying to paint runes on the surface of a blade. True runes are etched deep, they become an integral part of the weapon or armor. The only way to etch such runes is by a runeforging process, actually casting the runes as you shape the metal. And you won't manage that with a regular forge."

The boy's belligerence had sharpened to keen interest. "Where can I find a runeforge?"

Nex laughed. "On Outland some may have survived, used by the death knights of the old orcish Horde. And it may be that some could be found in the ruins of Lordaeron, assuming the Scourge operations were secure there." He pointed north. "But your best bet is there, some necropolis in the heart of Scourge power beneath the Frozen Throne. And you won't be having access to one of those until our enemies are defeated. Which somewhat defeats the purpose."

"Only if the Scourge is my only enemy," the boy muttered.

"Been making others while I wasn't looking?"

Montfere scowled. "How about the Burning Legion, for one. They're good enough for you, aren't they? All of Outland to explore, and plenty of enemies there too I bet. And if I want to find more I don't have to search far. How about Kanviel? How about the people of Corona's Blaze who should've been _my_ people?"

"If you killed every arrogant, selfish, cruel, brutal, narrow-minded person in existence you'd be awfully alone afterward."

"And that's such a bad thing?"

Nex looked hard at the boy, at his runescribed weapons, at his blood smeared clothing. "If you had a choice between growing up in a stable community to parents who cared for you, picking a trade and excelling at it, settling down with a wife to raise children, or living your life a lonely exile, his only companion his cursed power, which would you choose?"

"You're one to talk, considering what you chose."

Nex laughed. "You think I chose this, boy?" Montfere made no reply. "Very well, then. Marbrand told me something of these new chains of ice of yours. Hit me with them."

He was ready, so when he felt cold surging through him, constricting his muscles, he was ready to dispel them immediately. Not that he would've needed to; it would hardly have slowed him. "Again, boy, and this time pretend like you mean it." Montfere snarled and held up a fist, and again the cold came, stronger this time, stiffening his muscles more rigidly. Again he dispelled it almost immediately. The boy gave a cry and yanked his blood-smeared crystalline dagger out of his cloak, lunging forward and swinging with all the speed he could muster. Nex didn't even bother to strengthen himself as he stepped aside, caught the blade, and threw Montfere off balance.

The boy sprawled into the snow, then came up quick as a cat and hurled a torpedo at him. Nex caught it out of the air and let it fall to the ground, dispelling more chains of ice circling up his body. Montfere drew out his wand and sent a blast of shadow power at him, which Nex didn't even try to block. His own natural resistances to shadow were more than enough to shrug aside the wand's effects. The boy sent another, then growled and shoved the wand back into his belt.

Then Montfere went still, eyes intent, and Nex felt his temperature rising. Not his flesh, but his blood, coming to a boil. He dispelled this as well, but the spell shook him; that was on another level entirely from what the boy had shown before.

Taking two steps forward he backhanded Montfere hard, sending the boy sprawling. Montfere landed and went still, staring up at him in shock.

"You know what's more pathetic than an exile whose only companion is his power?" Nex asked coldly. "An exile with no power, held in contempt by all. You should rethink pushing people away, boy."

Tears fell from the boy's eyes, freezing to his face, as Nex walked off, and Montfere didn't even try to wipe them away.

Back at camp Nex sought out Marbrand. "If you care for the boy, you may wish to go to him now. See if you can get him to wash those silly blood paintings off his weapons and clothes."

. . . . .

Five days into their march the Scourge disappeared.

"I'm telling you," Alvin insisted. "The tracks just lead right up to a cliff and vanish. It's like they're walking right through the rock and on into the mountain."

"Show me," Nex said. The scout glanced over at Marbrand, who was already swinging up into the saddle, then nodded. "It's a ways ahead. We've had to range far to keep up with the Scourge, and the army's just not keeping pace."

"Then we better hurry."

"Blackfinger!" Marbrand called back to his second. "Keep them coming after us, but be prepared for the Scourge to show up at any time. And keep your eyes on the hills to our right; they may have climbed up and are trying to circle around us."

Nex couldn't imagine Menethil trying to sneak around a force this smaller rather than just smashing right through it. Assuming he even knew they were there at all. But he said nothing; at the moment Marbrand's position was shaky enough with his men, without anyone directly contradicting him.

He mounted as well, pulling Montfere up behind him in the saddle. Their weight combined didn't even total Blackfinger's and the horse made little of the burden. He was surprised Montfere was tailing him once more, but perhaps his show of power had dispelled the boy's contempt. In any case he'd become far more pliant and quiescent, and though he constantly pestered Nex for more information concerning runes he'd stopped trying to inscribe his weapons. Nex was somewhat worried the boy might try to kill someone in camp and draw upon that power, but he'd warned the boy that if he ever did Nex would execute him. There was still the risk of Montfere trying it on an enemy, but Nex wasn't so worried about that even if Marbrand was; there were far crueler ways to kill a person, and blood wasn't the soul.

A few hours later Alvin reined in, gesturing ahead. There was a broad swath of trampled ground cutting through the snow and churning it to brown slush, going around trees but trampling underbrush and even saplings. Nex detected no sign of any undead with his second sight and rode ride out into the midst of that trampled ground.

He followed the trail of the Scourge for almost a mile, passing by ripped fragments of cloth, discarded and trampled banners, even crushed fragments of bone and skull. Until finally they reached the blank cliff face where the trail abruptly ended.

"It's so smooth," Montfere said, craning to look around him. "Could even undead scale it?"

"No, they didn't scale it." The cliffside had been worked, not by any tools or any process he recognized, but it was far too flat and level to be natural. He extended his second sight through it and saw, as he'd expected, that it was an entranceway, with only blackness and alien writing and workmanship waiting inside, extending into the mountain. "It's a shortcut after all."

"What shortcut?" Marbrand demanded. "Look at the peaks north of here. Arthas could take weeks trying to scale them."

"They went under. The rock face is an entrance."

"An entrance to what, a tunnel?"

"No," Nex said slowly, guiding his horse until he was directly before the rock. "An entire underground city. A civilization."

As far as his second sight could penetrate the rock was honeycombed with tunnels and caverns, all oddly angular and the walls, floors, and ceilings scribed with strange glyphs and markings. They appeared to be pictographic in nature, and throughout the markings stylized images of the crypt fiends could be recognized. Except not crypt fiends but whatever they'd been living.

And it was completely empty. Was this subterranean civilization the Lich King's first conquest, before ever he set his will against humanity?

Saire spoke quietly behind them. "Angrathar Pass cuts northwest through the mountains. With the distance we've gone Icecrown Glacier might be directly north of here. Is it possible this is a direct route underground all the way to the glacier?"

"I hope not," Marbrand answered. "Illidan is still fighting his way through the Lich King's Scourge defenses. If Arthas has a clear shot directly to the Frozen Throne our cause is doomed."

"Then we have to follow after." Nex began inspecting the rock closer, searching for how it opened. He finally found it, not a magical trigger but a simple lever on the inside, which after a great deal of trying he was able to nudge. The thing released a counterweight, and with a loud grinding the rockface rolled aside. Musty air and the strange sweetish scent of thousands of insect corpses mouldering assailed them, and everyone else quailed.

Except it wasn't just the eerily warm air or the smell that assailed them. There was an impression of death in the air, and a sleepless dread. Nex wasn't aware of having dropped his hand to NexTaeja's hilt until the sword spoke in his mind.

_'Al'zathgosh vish duvlok.'_

Nex looked down at the weapon. _It waits beneath? What exactly is that supposed to mean?_

_'Igip mi'diris a vanl kovan.'_

_I know nothing of Old Gods._

_'You feel it, don't you? There is a dark madness beneath the earth. These nerubians tried to dig too deep in their efforts to escape the Lich King. They discovered something long buried, an old kingdom of their people that touched on something older still, something old at the beginning of this world. And now you would take your men beneath the earth to face it?'_

_Arthas Menethil led an army into that putrid dark. I've been tasked with harrying him._

_'You will find only madness if you follow. The dead may go where the living fear to tread.'_

_I doubt Kael'thas would accept that as a valid excuse._

_'Then he is as great a fool as you. We are not strong enough for what lies beneath. Leave the traitor to deal with it, it will slow him well.'_

_Are you certain of that?_

_'Mish'luk al vigol Yogg-Saron akhiel.' _The Forgotten Ones bathe in the black blood of Yogg-Saron.

_What the hell is that supposed to mean?_

_'The traitor thinks he has found a shortcut, but it would've been better for him to fight his way through all the armies of the living. Turn aside and find another way, this way is death for you.'_

Nex slowly released the hilt, looking into that blackness. "Back to Angrathar Pass," he finally said. "All speed."

"That'll slow us down immensely!" Marbrand protested. "Arthas might have taken and held Icecrown Glacier against Illidan by the time we ever caught up."

"This isn't such a shortcut as you might think. Can't you feel it?"

Saire shuddered. "I do. I would be terrified to enter this place."

Nex turned his horse away. "Menethil should be terrified as well. The Lich King may have conquered the nerubians, but he wasn't the one who defeated them."

"Who did, then?" Marbrand asked.

"Whatever now waits in his path."


	19. The Cult of the Damned

Chapter Eighteen

Cult of the Damned

"What are they all complaining about?" Montfere asked in contempt, staring at the soldiers around the nearest fire.

Nex lifted his head from his breakfast. "What?"

The boy gestured. "Look at them all. We're about to enter Angrathar pass, which already got cleared by the blood elves and naga. All we have to do is follow them and make sure no undead are coming up from behind. That's going to be weeks without fighting, and they're whining like we're about to march into a dragon's lair."

"There's still all the Scourge fliers. They couldn't follow Arthas into the deep earth and they have to be around somewhere."

"That's not the point. Why are they all complaining so much? They _knew_ what they were getting into, they swore to come, and now they just whine nonstop."

Nex shrugged. "It's a human trait. Say you know you're about to get your arm cut off. You don't want to, but you resign yourself to it as time goes on. Then, halfway through the operation, the surgeon says you don't need to have it cut off after all. Hurray! No more need to worry. Then the next day the surgeon sends a messenger telling you that he was wrong and you'll need to get it cut off after all. I assume you'd be even more pissed off than if you'd just had to have the operation, right?"

Montfere reluctantly nodded. "That just means Marbrand was an idiot for letting them think they could get off easy."

"Someone was an idiot, at least."

The boy stood. "But that's not really me anyway, because I _want_ to go into battle."

"Why don't you go see if you can infect your fellow soldiers with your enthusiasm."

Montfere scowled and kicked at a clump of snow, wandering off. "I'll infect them with something," he muttered under his breath just before he passed out of earshot.

Nex finished his food and went in search of Marbrand, finding him by the horses assessing the supply sleds. "Look at this," the quartermaster, Devan, was saying in disgust. "The runners on two of them are completely smashed. We must have gone over rocks."

"Or this is further evidence of sabotage," Marbrand said grimly.

"What sabotage?" Nex asked sharply.

Both men jumped slightly, looking up. "None we can be sure of," Devan said hastily, tugging his forelock. "Just small things. Sleds sinking when we tried to cross that river a couple weeks back. Saddle cinches snapping from wear. Runners shattering while going over rocks."

Nex listened to the man coldly, then turned to Marbrand. "I thought the furs thrown into the sea before the voyage were an isolated occurrence. Why didn't you tell me about this?"

The burned knight scowled right back. "Because I'm the one responsible for this army. In any case there's been nothing major, only minor setbacks that could as easily be random accidents."

"You mean like the army "accidentally" learning your plans to take them home?"

Marbrand straightened. "I'm handling this, my Lord."

Nex considered arguing further, then thought better of it. Marbrand likely knew how to protect what needed protecting in an army, from internal threats as well as external. Still he was going to be more vigilant in the night in any case. After all, he rarely slept.

"Has Alvin returned yet with word about Angrathar Pass?"

Marbrand shook his head. "He just set out a few minutes ago. He might not be back before nightfall."

Nex nodded. "Mind if I accompany you on your rounds?"

The burned knight looked surprised. "By all means."

He was silent as he followed the leader of the Sons of Lothar around camp. Much of the business he tended to seemed rather unimportant as Nex judged it, but he did notice the sullen murmuring around the campfires tended to die off after Marbrand visited. Perhaps for a good leader his mere presence was enough to quell dissension.

Before long Marbrand went in search of food himself, sitting beside Blackfinger and speaking quietly. Nex was about to go for a second helping himself when Alvin cantered directly into camp, bringing his lathered horse as close to the fire as he could get.

Marbrand immediately stood. "You're back quick. What did you find?"

The scout dismounted and, as was his habit, immediately began rubbing down his mount. "Sir, there's something amiss ahead."

Marbrand frowned. "What is it? Have the elves abandoned their defense at the mouth of the pass?"

Alvin shook his head. "No. They're there, but . . ." he trailed off helplessly.

"What is it?" Marbrand demanded, getting impatient.

"I, uh, think you should see it."

. . . . .

Half an hour later a dozen of them were making their way afoot up the gradual rise, leaving their horses behind. Following Alvin's example Marbrand ducked, then got on his hands and knees, and finally his belly for the final few yards, looking down the gradual slope to where it rose steeply up to where the elves stood in their stiff ranks.

He squinted ahead at the line of elvish soldiers holding their positions, same as they had been when the Sons of Lothar had left the Pass almost two weeks ago, only now their weapons were drawn. "I don't see anything."

Alvin didn't move. "Look closer, sir. You will."

So he did, squinting at the dark ranks, fading to dark shadows in the twilight. To his right Olivia gasped and lifted her hands to her mouth in horror. What had she seen?

The elves stood as they had, in all their splendor. It took him another few moments to see how unnaturally still they all were. How some were missing limbs, or their clothing was torn, or their weapons were bent and broken. He pushed against the horror welling within him, trying to tell himself they'd just seen fighting and were the worse for wear. Then within the deep scarlet helms of one of the officers he caught a blue glow from the eyes. As dusk settled to full dark more and more of those eyes were winking alight, until they seemed a see of cold fire.

To his left the Castaway shifted. "Well," the elf said brightly, "looks as if we'll be fighting Kanviel after all."

In the horrified silence that followed every single head slowly turned to face him, staring in disbelief.

. . . . .

"How did it happen?" Blackfinger demanded. "We were here not two weeks ago being rebuffed by a pristine elvish army, and we followed Arthas all the way to that hole in the mountain without seeing any of his forces double back."

"Another Scourge army, then?" Olivia suggested.

"If so why are they still guarding the mouth of the Pass? Any Scourge should be rushing to Icecrown to defend the Lich King."

"Preventing reinforcements, maybe? Or cutting off the blood elf and naga army should they try to go back and attempt a different route?"

"Well that settles it," Nova said, coming up to his knees. "A wizard did it."

Marbrand blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

The elf began brushing snow off his cloak. "No sign of anyone else coming anywhere near here, no reason for the Kanviel's undead forces to still be sitting there. That only leaves magic. A wizard did it."

Nex smiled slightly. Peasants all over Azeroth blamed any unexplained phenomenon on a passing wizard. This was one of the more ludicrous instances of this he'd heard. "You're an exceptional investigator, Nova."

"You have another idea?"

"A fairly obvious one, actually. Menethil and his minions are undead and therefore tireless. However where they can spend every hour of every day on the march there are creatures who are inactive a third of their lives."

"What?" Blackfinger said. "Who?"

"He means us," Marbrand snapped. "If Arthas has forces that still live they won't be able to match the pace of the rest of his army and would have arrived later. Only one problem with the idea. What living in their right minds would serve the Scourge?"

"Those who originally worked to create it, for one."

Olivia's eyes widened. "The Cult of the Damned."

Nex nodded. "There are some people who love the notion of destruction and romanticize the end of the world. Such fools would willingly join such a cult. And their loyalty would be to Menethil and Kel'Thuzad, not the dreadlords or the banshees' Dark Lady. They might in fact feature a large subset of his forces on Northrend."

"I don't see any living," Nova argued. "Cultist or otherwise."

Nex shrugged. "Yes, well, whatever force defeated Kanviel has probably withdrawn deeper into the Pass. Until we know what we're facing we should avoid letting them know we're here."

Marbrand began sliding back away from the rise. "I agree. In any case our troops are weary. I would suggest we withdraw the entire army back into that cleft we hid in on our way west, the first rest we took after leaving Angrathar. That and set double the number of sentries to prevent any scouts from discovering us."

The others also slid down the hill until they could stand without being seen, at which point Marbrand led the way jogging back to the horses. They were silent for a large portion of the ride, until Blackfinger brought up a point Nex was sure they were all considering.

"Even if it's just Kanviel and his elves, what are we going to do about them? They have to outnumber our army three to one, and he had mages and Rangers among his forces."

"We'll have to find a way," Marbrand said. "Either by fighting them directly or finding a way to slip past them. I don't relish the thought of-"

Nex's second sight warned him of a presence off to the right, atop a low hill overlooking where the army was stopped. In appearance it was a man, somewhat homely and with wild hair, an expression of silent torment on his translucent features. As far as Nex could tell the creature was purely spiritual, and indeed touched upon this plane only lightly. As soon as his second sight brushed the spirit it turned, caught sight of them, and then drifted swiftly in the direction of Angrathar Pass.

Nex held out his hand, sending a tongue of flame roaring out to consume the shade. It gave a silent scream as it discorporated, or whatever it was incorporeal creatures did.

Everyone in the party had drawn their horses to a halt, putting hands to weapons. Blackfinger and Marbrand were wheeling their mounts in tight circles, looking in every direction. "What the hell did you just loose a spell at?" Saire demanded.

"A spirit," Nex replied, extending his second sight in search of others.

Nova laughed. "I thought you were just attacking the darkness."

Nex was in no mood to laugh. "If no one else saw it it must have been invisible on this plane. It was purely spiritual, almost wholly unable to affect any change to the world around it."

"In that case what danger could it pose to us?" Marbrand asked.

"The obvious one. As a spy." Nex dismounted, tossing the reins to Nova. "Prepare the camp for attack just in case. I'm going to search the perimeter for any other spies. But no matter what we can't assume our presence has gone undetected."

"Are you sure there was something there?" Olivia asked doubtfully. "I didn't sense anything."

"No, Lady," Nex said with mock politeness, "you're right, there was nothing there. I randomly waste energy attacking things that don't exist so I can impress people who can't see my exploits, then invent dangers that only I can solve so I can be the hero." Near the back of the group Nova snorted.

Without waiting for a response Nex limped off into the trees, second sight straining as far as he could manage.

. . . . .

Once they'd gotten everyone into the narrow box canyon Marbrand had pointed out, Nex was able to stop actively scouting and simply sit at the entrance to the canyon, letting his body rest. It was irritating to find his strength was so limited unaided by magic, but it was reassuring to know the strength was there if he needed it.

If he was willing to damage his body to use it.

He'd found another spirit hovering in the midst of camp, tailing one of the refugee recruits. From what Nex could see there was nothing special about the recruit, an older woman. Again the shade tried to flee the moment it sensed Nex's second sight upon it, but this time Nex was quieter about destroying it, using blasts of shadow magic that were harder to detect.

The sensitivity of the spirits to his second sight was a surprise to him. As far as he'd known up to this point it was wholly passive, undetectable by any means. But if these Scourge spies could sense it then perhaps, with training, he could do so as well. It would be nice to know when Stormrage's attention was upon him.

He stretched out atop his cloak, easing his left leg. The break had almost completely healed, although he could perceive hairline fractures that seemed stubborn in closing. Soon enough he hoped he'd be able to take the cast off completely, although Havel had warned him that it would be best to have that support until the bone was strong if he didn't want to just break it again. Apparently some element had been missing from his bones, an element his magic had replaced up to the point that his body developed an immunity to it. They would get stronger as he kept eating and working his muscles, but until then Havel had given him a bag of chalky powder and told him to eat a teaspoon every day.

It tasted awful.

The camp was silent behind him, the sentries and those on patrol making a quiet, orderly routine that he eventually stopped paying attention to unless someone deviated from it. He sensed no spirits approaching, and all seemed calm. Eventually his mind wandered into the trancelike nightmare state.

He was awakened from it what could have been minutes or hours later, aware of someone leaving the camp. Geana, Blackfinger's woman. His attention remained on her up to the point where she shucked her clothes down and fell into a crouch, voiding her bladder a discrete distance from camp.

She wasn't the first to respond to bodily urges in the night, and she wouldn't be the last. Nex allowed himself to sink back into fitful nightmares.

When he awoke again the sky to the east was brightening. He swiftly extended his second sight out, still sensing nothing, and after a moment working the kinks out of his back and shifting in place to warm up his half-frozen body he wandered back into camp for breakfast.

Marbrand was one of the few people up this early, although the camp was stirring. A few of the women were preparing the meal while the burned knight leaned close to the fire. The quartermaster Devan was reporting to him again; Nex hadn't been aware the man delivered such reports morning as well as evening. He came and sat down on a board beside the two men, leaning closer to the fire. There were plenty of ways he could warm himself, but doing so with magic sort of defeated the purpose.

He was beginning to deeply regret a night spent without his tents and furs as the heat of the fire set his chilled body to shivering. He wondered how other people stood this aggravation.

". . . and another man died of natural causes last night."

Nex whipped his head around to face Devan. "What?"

Devan blinked. "Ah, Gerard, m'lord. Died of natural causes in the night."

Nex slowly turned away from his blind contemplation of the flames. "Another, you say? How many have there been?"

"This is the fifth death in six days."

Marbrand was staring at Devan with growing unease. "And you don't find that at all strange, man?" Nex asked quietly.

The quartermaster's shoulders hunched. "Conditions are hard, m'lord. We knew they would be in Northrend. They's dying of the cold."

"Bullshit. I just slept atop my cloak in what you see me wearing without overly adverse effects. It's midsummer in Northrend, the warmest part of the year."

Because he was taking an interest in it, Marbrand evidently decided he should be as well. "You're sure they're all of natural causes?"

"Wait," Nex snapped. "Exactly what do you call "natural causes"? Were these people old? Sickly?"

"Ah no, m'lord. Few elderly in the army, and the priests've been tending any what catch diseases."

"So young, healthy people are dying and you haven't looked into it?"

The man was reddening. "Course I've looked into it. No signs of foul play. No wounds, no bruising. They all look as if their hearts stopped in the night. And with nights so cold wh-" he cut off, seeming to realize that Nex had already chewed him out on that point.

Nex turned away again, slowly putting weight on his left leg then easing up on it, the way he often did while musing. "This is a grievous lapse in vigilance, Devan. So many deaths, clustered so closely together. That speaks to me of murder, not nature."

Marbrand looked sick. "We're in the barren north, all sworn to a perilous cause, with sentries mundane and magical guarding the camp. If it's murder it must be coming from an internal source."

"Yes. I'd better check the body."

Devan willingly led him to one of the larger tents, with Marbrand following a step behind. Inside men and women were dressing, murmuring. Their posture was subdued, and the source was easy to see from the way they refused to look in the direction of the wrapped body at the edge of the tent.

Marbrand moved over and pulled aside the cloth covering the face. Nex was already inspecting the body with his second sight. This Gerard had been a big man, strong and hardened. One of the veterans. His body had multiple scars crisscrossing it.

"No sign of foul play, you said," Marbrand was saying. "Have you ever asked one of the priests to inspect the bodies?"

"Ah no, Sir. To be honest no one likes to think of noncombat deaths on a campaign, so I didn't look to deep." Devan turned toward the entrance of the tent. "Shall I go fetch Lady Olivia?"

"No need. Marbrand, come with me."

The burned knight turned, frowning. "But I've barely had a chance to look-"

"I have." Nex turned and left the tent, leading Marbrand to a more secluded part of camp. Devan followed along until Nex pointedly told him to leave. Once he was gone Nex turned. "Gerard died by asphyxiation."

Marbrand stared. "Asph-what, you mean somebody strangled him?"

"Smothered, I think. There are cloth fibers lodged between his teeth, as if he tried to bite his attacker, or possibly while he thrashed. Although from his position and appearance I believe he didn't waken, simply went from sleep to death with the absence of air."

The burned knight looked sick. "Light shine on us. This is definitely murder, then?"

Nex shrugged. "People have been known to suffocate in their sleep, if their mouth gets covered by blankets or their head is pressed into something. But I doubt it's going to happen five nights in a row."

"Then someone's killing us off one by one? What, some psycho?"

After a moment's thought Nex shook his head. "I think not. You mentioned these refugees were fleeing an outbreak of the Plague of Undeath carried into their midst by Cultist infiltrators, right?"

Marbrand frowned. "I believe so."

"Well. What if the Cultists never left? And what if, now that we're on top of their fellow cultists, they're finally showing themselves. These little sabotages you've "been handling" have been happening fairly regularly, right? But now they're stepping things up, growing more bold. Or more desperate."

Marbrand shook his head. "But if we had infiltrators in our camp why haven't any of them tried to escape and report to the Scourge at the mouth of the Pass? Any of the sentries could have-"

"Geana." Nex turned and ran towards Blackfinger's tent.

Marbrand was running beside him in moments. "What do you mean?"

Nex shook his head grimly. "I was keeping watch for more spirits last night. During the watch several people left camp to tend to nature, but Geana was the only one I don't know for certain returned."

"Not to be rude, but if she was a member of a cult dedicated to spreading undeath across Azeroth, don't you think Blackfinger would have-"

Nex increased his pace, pouring magic into his limbs to go at the best speed he could. He'd looked through the wall of Blackfinger's tent and seen the young woman kneeling over Blackfinger, pressing her bunched-up cloak against his face. Blackfinger, always a heavy sleeper and late to rise, wasn't struggling.

He stretched out his hand, sending a line of flame out to slice open the side of Blackfinger's tent. He reached it just as it the tear got big enough to dive through, tackling Geana off the big man. He caught her completely by surprise, but even so as they crashed to the ground together she somehow produced a knife and, rather than going for him, thrust it at her own heart.

Nex caught it before it had gone more than an inch, sprawled atop her with his face close to hers. "Got you," he hissed.

. . . . .

"It makes sense, in a way," Blackfinger said. His face was drawn with shock and grief, but he also seemed oddly resigned to it. "You were all wondering how news of our going home had gotten around camp."

Annoyance flickered across Marbrand's face. "You told her?"

"I tell her everything. I thought I could trust her like I trust myself." The big man laughed bitterly. "I guess you were right to be mad at me when I took her into my tent after all."

"We're going to have to kill her, Lewis."

Blackfinger paled slightly and looked away. "Dare, she tried to smother me in my sleep. I won't weep a tear for her." But that was already a lie.

Nex shifted impatiently. He had nothing but sympathy for Blackfinger, of course, but he was eager to get at Geana. "We're going to have to do more than kill her, Blackfinger. I'll need to interrogate her."

The big man frowned. "Why you?"

"Because I'm the only one in camp who I know isn't a Cultist aside from you, based on the fact that Cultists tried to kill you. And I doubt you'd be eager to torture your former lover."

"You think I might be a Cultist?" Marbrand asked, affronted.

"Very unlikely, same with the other Sons of Lothar from Outland. You just wouldn't have been around to be recruited. But at the same time you could have joined the Cult at any time since setting foot on Azeroth. So for now no."

Blackfinger gritted his teeth. "Do it, then." He abruptly stood and made for the entrance to the box canyon.

"Where are you going?" Marbrand called after him.

"He doesn't want to hear her scream," Nex said calmly. "Unnecessary: pain will be a very small part of my interrogation process."

Marbrand turned an annoyed glance his way. "How do we know _you're_ not a Cultist, if everyone is suspect?"

"Because if I'm a member of the Cult of the Damned you're all fucked." Nex turned and made for Marbrand's tent.

Inside Geana was bound with her hands and feet pulled together near the small of her back, on her side and in obvious pain. Marbrand hadn't been gentle with her. She glared up at him malevolently.

"Interrogating a Cultist is one of those things I've been meaning to get around to," Nex said, letting the flap close behind him. "I long for death, surely enough, but your kind seem to look forward to an unlife of slavery to a soulless abomination with uncanny eagerness. Your shades, for instance, the ones you use to spy on your enemies. Sacrificed Cultists, unless I miss my guess. Would you like me to describe the expression of endless horror and torment I saw on the faces of the shades I freed?"

"You cannot know the joys of serving the Master," the woman spat, features twisted with derision. "You could, but your eyes are closed."

"I don't have eyes. You must not be a good spy for Kel'Thuzad if you haven't even figured that out after all this time in the camp." Her reply was a stream of curses spat through gritted teeth. Nex silenced her with a spell and continued. "In any case, such questions concerning psychological motivations will have to wait. I have more practical information I need from you."

The spell he'd cast had been weak, and she soon shook off the effects. "I fear neither death or pain. Torture me as you will, I'll never betray the others!"

"Again, a poor servant. You've betrayed them by letting me know of their existence."

She did a credible job of masking her surprise and anger. "Unless my intent is to get you to waste your time on a fruitless search."

"In which case you wouldn't admit that's what you're doing. I doubt you're that stupid, but I also doubt you're subtle enough to play such intricate mind games." Nex stepped forward, and in spite of her brave words the Cultist flinched. "I imagine I could trick, tease, and prod the information out of you with a bit of effort, but I haven't the time. Do you know how priests draw out involuntary confessions?"

"Torture?"

"Of course not. Maybe in the dark times of the past when they didn't care about innocence or guilt, only the confession itself. Because when you torture a person seeking a confession you're going to get one whether it's true or not. No, they turned to subtler means. You'll find few more skilled than priests at delving into a person's mind."

"My mind is strong," she said stoutly, eyes blazing.

_I seriously doubt that_. "It does not matter. I've teased secrets from the mind of a paladin whose thoughts blazed with the Light, a protection greater than you can imagine." Nex rested his hand atop her head, gripping her hair when she tried to jerk around, and with ruthless ease pushed his way into her mind.

"My soul for the Master!" she screamed as her mental defenses crumbled. Nex only became aware she was smiling when, like a marionette with its strings cut, she abruptly went limp.

He tore his hand away, hissing in surprise and disbelief. She'd killed herself with a thought? He hadn't known that was even possible. Oh sure, if he'd wanted to he could manipulate the magic within him to cause his own demise, but Geana didn't have the slightest magical potential.

How had she managed it? He'd been in the uppermost layers of her mind, his second sight intent upon her, and he hadn't seen. All he'd gotten was the hint of some sort of link, abruptly severed, a presence in her mind fleeing like a cockroach exposed to light as the Cultist died in its absence.

Was it possible the leaders of the Cult of the Damned could communicate with their followers telepathically? But if that was the case why had Geana snuck out of camp, ostensibly to report?

No, a far more reasonable explanation was that this was a simple defense mechanism. The Cult wouldn't want its secrets getting out, and it had a lot of very ordinary, stupid people in its ranks who could do a lot of harm in the event of their inevitable capture. And, as Nex himself had pointed out, priests could delve those secrets easily. He doubted the Cult had any enemy more dangerous and determined than the Church of the Light, so of course there would be mental safeguards to kill the captured Cultist in the event of psychic intrusion.

Damn. Damn damn damn. And the bitch had been such an _easy_ source of information. There was no telling if the next one he caught would be such a fool, assuming he even caught another.

Yes, _she_ was the fool. Which was why she'd died laughing at him, leaving him with only one bit of useful information.

Hissing in irritation, he stalked out of the tent.

"That was fast," Marbrand said. He was keeping the others back, Nex saw with approval. Hopefully everyone was watching everyone else as well.

"She's dead," Nex replied bluntly.

"What! Did you even learn anything from her?"

"Only what I'd already suspected. There are other Cultists in the camp."

The burned knight flinched. "More? How is it possible they haven't been discovered? It seems to me the more there are the greater the likelihood."

"Really? Think of it logically. If Geana had been creeping around from tent to tent smothering people someone would have eventually noticed. There are other Cultists in camp. I suggest we look at who slept in the tents with the dead people. First group of suspects would be those who discovered the body, the second group would be those who didn't."

Marbrand snorted. "In other words everybody?"

"Not exactly. It depends on how the Cult wanted to operate. If they thought suspicion would fall upon those who discovered the bodies they might have avoided doing so. And if they thought the opposite they might have set the killers to discovering the bodies. Or they might have made it random, depending on the situation." Marbrand was looking at him blankly. "But those sort of investigatory tactics are unnecessary here. I'll check those in the tents with the victims because they're the most likely. Luckily there's an easy, albeit messy, way to deal with the Cultists."

"How?"

"The same way I killed Geana. Pry into their minds and see who dies. Or at least have Havel and Olivia do so. After I search the minds of our priests to be sure they're not Cultists, of course."

The burned knight looked doubtful. "I thought you wanted to interrogate a Cultist."

"I do. But at the moment the threat they pose to the camp is greater than the information they could provide. All they really know is their own doings, which we already know or suspect." Nex bared his canines. "If, however, anyone tries to resist being brought in, or tries to run away, please hold him separate. I'd like to take another shot at a living Cultist."

Marbrand nodded and started to turn away to relay the orders to his men. Then he hesitated. "You know of a way to search everyone to weed out the Cultists. Why do those in the victims' tents first?"

"First of all the sooner we can get to the infiltrators the better. Second this is going to be a very lengthy, exhausting process."

"How lengthy?" Nex could only shake his head. Marbrand sighed. "What if Olivia and Havel weaken themselves right in time for the Scourge to attack?"

Nex shrugged. "Has Alvin reported any signs from the undead at the Pass?" Marbrand shook his head. "Then chances are good they'll wait for us to attack. After all, they know their position is good. They may decide to hold off for a few days before getting impatient."

"What if they don't? You can do this process as easily as Havel and Olivia, why don't you help them and ease their burden?"

"Because I'm going to be working on something else."

Marbrand's eyes narrowed in annoyance. "What?"

He smiled. "The Scourge sent an infiltrator into our camp. I think it's only fair to return the favor."

. . . . .

It took an inordinately long amount of time to climb up and around the line of undead elves defending the mouth of the pass. And even this brutal approach wasn't completely defenseless; he slew three shades getting to a good vantage point, only to find an undead sentry keeping watch on that narrow shelf of rock.

Luckily a lone undead was exactly what he was looking for. Nex shackled the creature before it could raise any alarm, then climbed down to it and knocked on its helmeted head. "Anyone in there?"

The skeletal soldier glared at him with the mindless hatred all undead felt for the living. Had it not been shackled it would've come after him until it was destroyed, he managed to get out of its range of attention, or some Scourge officer set it to a different purpose.

Some Scourge officer, or possible some other force.

Nex had never practiced necromancy before, had sworn he would never do so as long as he lived. But at the same time Lynda had possessed several tomes on the forbidden subject, many that had been penned by orcish Necrolytes and brought to Azeroth by such clans as the Black Tooth Grin, Stormreaver, and Twilight's Hammer. Nex had read them as he'd read all the rest, even as he despised the material, all the more as he came to understand it more deeply.

There were two types of necromancy: that which bound a mortal's body, and that which bound its soul. The most powerful forms generally employed both types, creating from great heroes an undead slave whose soul was trapped forever in torment within their own cold dead flesh. As Nex ranked such things that marked the highest of all abominations, for death should be a freedom from such pain. Second to that was the entrapping of a soul, refusing to let it continue on to the world beyond. Whatever use that soul was put to, the torment of being held upon this world could scarce be imagined.

Compared to those vile practices, mere manipulation of fallen remains ranked rather low. Puppetry, creating animated corpses as opposed to true undead. A vile desecration of mortal remains, perhaps, but the mortal was no longer around to care overmuch.

Which was why Nex felt few qualms about employing this animate corpse for his own purposes.

He carefully probed into the undead's, for lack of a better word, mind, searching for hidden booby traps such as Geana's mind had held. There wasn't much there, but it didn't seem to be trapped. It had no knowledge to reveal, and if its strings to its master were cut it would have no will either. The force that animated it would persist, but without purpose.

Nex traced along the strings, searching. His first idea was to control the creature while it remained bound to the Lich King, decreasing its chances of being caught for a spy, but it didn't take long to see that the strings cleverly prohibited such intrusions, even as weak as they were.

Because yes, the Lich King's hold on this undead was faint, enough to animate it and instill within it a deep and abiding hatred for all things warm and alive, and a bit added to make it responsive to the commands of Scourge officers. Nothing more. If he couldn't control it while the strings remained, and those strings were weak, then the next logical step was to sever them before tying his own upon the creature.

Nex reached deep within the undead, to that bond that was so like his own bond to Stormrage, and in a swift stroke moved to cut it.

As his power touched that icy source the thin filament of the Lich King's control snapped around his spell, so that rather than him severing it instead it caught him like a spider's sticky tendril of web. He went rigid, frozen as surely as if a glacier had washed over him, and his breath escaped from a locked jaw, from lungs collapsing as if from intense pressure.

He could see a shard of crystal clear as the purest ice, shaped by the heat of crashing down upon a world until it vaguely resembled a throne. It stood upon the top of a breathtakingly tall spiraled glacier overlooking empty frozen wasteland in every direction. Within that throne-shaped crystal a suit of armor was arranged as if awaiting its master to come and don it once more, dark and inscribed with vile runes. Orcish armor, shaped to encase a powerful warlord, an elder shaman and leader of that race.

The power within that crystal prison was vast and cold and devouring, and his touch upon the least of its servants had awakened it to his existence. Even as the filament of the Lich King's control snared him that power surged to life, an impossibly vast consciousness and will pressing down upon him. Nex writhed, cursing his recklessness.

By trying to steal one of the Scourge away, he'd inadvertently locked himself into a battle of wills with Ner'zhul himself.

He had no breath to scream, yet in his mind the wail raged. NexTaeja tried to touch his thoughts and was rebuffed by that icy power. He couldn't move his hand to grasp its hilt, and even if he could have he wasn't sure the full strength of the sword was sufficient to battle this unstoppable force of will. His power was torn from his control like a toy from a baby's pudgy fist, and in the blink of an eye he found himself naked and helpless before that regard.

**An attack upon the least of my servants is an attack upon me. Few are so foolish as to steal one of my minions for his own. Those who do come to kneel before me in the end.**

Nex flailed, struggling to muster his will, but there was nothing within him to answer this assault. He stared helpless at the undead before him, watching as the shackles with bound it slowly dissolved. When they did the creature would cut him apart and he'd be helpless to stop it.

But he had a feeling others would be coming long before then.

The Lich King seemed to relish his helplessness, and began pressing upon him, crushing his will, his very mind. And he could do nothing. Was Nothing. For the first time since returning from Outland, he truly felt the embodiment of his name as he once had.

Sometime between the moment of his capture and eternity his screams were drowned out by a raucous cry and the flapping of wings. The Frozen Throne which dominated his vision abruptly receded as a black shape interposed itself between him and his tormenter. A bird, some sort of crow or raven perhaps. Ner'zhul raged at Nex, struggling to push aside this flimsy intruder, but while the raven seemed small and frail it staunchly rebuffed that overwhelming attack. Nex struggled as well, trying to escape while he had the chance, but the Lich King's hold was still to tight.

Then the bird turned its head until one beady eye regarded him, Nex's own reflection trapped and tormented on that onyx surface. The darkly gleaming beak opened and a cry shivered through his very soul, shoving him violently away and severing his connection to the Lich King through the shackled undead.

Nex staggered back, nearly falling off the ledge, and he slammed against the cliff wall behind him. Then his consciousness fled.

He was in the refuge of his regenerative trance, but not in memory this time. He wandered alone in a place of infinite blackness beneath the ground, while mad voices whispered in his mind and sought to tear his sanity away, and all the way cold blue eyes sought him.

It took a long, long while to heal the hurt of his brush with the Frozen Throne's undeniable power. His mind gradually came together, his will reasserted itself, and as soon as he was able to do so he fled the trance and back into the waking world.

The undead he'd tried to take control of lay shattered on the ledge beside him. And standing overhead was a tall, broad-shouldered figure wearing a feathered mantle of deep red, whose deep hood obscured his features. The staff he bore appeared to be of plain oak with a burled head, but Nex could sense the power of it. It would be impossible not to. And he knew its name as well. He had seen pictures of it in the hands of a person he hated, if possible, more than Lynda the Demonologist herself.

Atiesh, Greatstaff of the Guardian.

A gloved hand reached down, offering aid in getting to his feet. Nex scrabbled backwards instead, cutting his hands on shards of bone until finally one rested on thin air instead of the ledge and he found himself flipping backward.

The hand he flailed upward in an instinctive attempt to right himself was caught in a powerful grip. "Would you shun my aid, even if it meant falling into the Scourge camp below?" a smooth, resonant voice that radiated power asked in calm amusement.

Nex made no response, nor did he try to hide his loathing as his second sight penetrated the cowl of that mantle to the face he had seen so often among the magically generated images hovering above the signet ring of House Aran. The face of his great-uncle.

Medivh, the last Guardian of Tirisfal.


	20. The Battle of Angrathar Pass

Chapter Nineteen

The Battle of Angrathar Pass

The Last Guardian's eyes dropped to the hand he gripped, to the ring circling the middle finger of that hand. "Ah. I have not seen that heirloom in a long, long time."

"Would you like it back, Uncle? A small price to pay for your swift departure."

"I've been thought dead for decades. Are you not surprised to see me or the least bit curious as to where I've been?"

"As curious as I am about the fate of Lynda in whatever hell she's burning in."

Medivh's voice became thick with reproof. "I know enough of you, boy, to know you value thought over emotion and despise those who are unreasonable or illogical. And there is nothing more illogical than ingratitude. I believe, after the fate I just spared you from, I deserve at least a little of your time."

For the first time in his life, Nex understood the hatred that bordered on stupidity exhibited by elves like Redcrest and Kanviel. "I owe the nightmare of my entire existence to you. And yes, you have my _gratitude_, Medivh."

"I prefer to be called the Prophet, these days." Nex was pulled easily up onto the ledge, at which point Medivh released him and stepped back.

Nex gripped his cloak with his bleeding hand. "The Prophet. Abandoning your own name after you sullied it?"

"And why not? It speaks to a past I'd just as soon forget. You of all people should be able to sympathize with that." His uncle's voice hardened. "Although your regrettable poor decisions aren't quite in the past yet, are they?"

He couldn't help but laugh, although it was cut short by a wave of dizziness, forcing him to slump into a sitting position on the ledge. It galled him to appear so weak, but he wasn't sure he had the strength to stand for long just yet.

It looked as if his uncle would have a little of his time, whether he liked it or not. "If you're referring to my service to Stormrage, you're in no position to judge. My master appeared in my life at just the moment all purpose had gone out of it. He had perfect timing on his offer of slavery."

Medivh frowned, leaning against his staff. "And why do you not walk away from servitude to this creature you despise?"

"Oh I would love to. He's linked me to him as a warlock links his demon." Nex laughed hollowly. "Who knows, perhaps I _am_ a demon. Stormrage hinted my sire was of demonic heritage."

"In this he lied, boy. As no doubt in many other things."

"Oh, and you'd be in a position to know?"

"In fact I am. Your father's name was Darius Felsin."

Nex stopped, suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. "You do know," he whispered. "Or this is a cruel lie."

"I speak to you true. Will you hear of your father?"

Nex hesitated. He'd thought he had no interest in knowing this, had thought even that he'd be pleased to never learn the identity of the creature that provided the seed which quickened him. But now that it was offered him, he found he couldn't refuse. Still he refused to accept either, so all he could do was say nothing.

Medivh seemed to take that for acquiescence. "Darius was a bishop of the Church of the Holy Light at the time of the First War, when the orcs came pouring through the Dark Portal. At that time the Church had not taken quite the stance it had assumed by the Second War. It believed its role was to ease the suffering. Darius presided over the towns of Milnae and Irivid, which existed in the region which came to be known as the Blasted Lands, very close to the Dark Portal. He led those of his people who survived to safety, but they were not many.

"Working behind the lines in the war, he saw only the great death and suffering. The injured, the diseased, the poor and starving. Innocents grieving for loved ones, children filled with hatred and swearing vengeance. He saw nothing of the valor of those fighting to hold back the tides of darkness, the kindness of the kingdoms of the north that arrived too late for him and those he tried to help. In the end he couldn't take it anymore and he fled, forsaking the Church and proclaiming that the Light was undeserving of faith if it could do nothing to protect the innocent from such suffering. He wandered alone far from human dwellings, his heart turned to darkness, his mind seeking the shadows. In the end those were the powers he turned to, cultivated within his tormented soul.

"In the wild hills above the place which became Deadwind Pass, when my death released corrupting magics into the area surrounding Karazhan, he came across a young girl, an outcast wretched and starving, another example of human pain. But this one was not a victim of orcs, but of her own people. A girl who'd watched in terror as her family was murdered before her eyes and her home was sacked, who fled before she could suffer a similar fate. Darius saw the power in her and-"

Medivh fell suddenly silent, expression troubled. Nex felt a surge of anger at his hesitance. "You think I don't know pain? You think I'll feel anything but joy at her suffering?"

The old man sighed. "He saw in her a likely pupil. There was mostly grief and confusion in her heart, but under his tutelage it became bitterness and rage. He taught her in all his arts, and using her family's wealth purchased forbidden tomes and sought the council of exiles and outcasts. But at the same time they became fellow pupils of the dark arts they became more.

"She did not go willing into his bed. In truth she was little more than a child herself, still innocent for all her hatred. He was not tender with her, and she soon came to loathe him as she loathed those who had killed her family. And as her power grew Darius held to his bosom his greatest enemy. Soon she surpassed him, which did not take long, and struck, stealing his soul and condemning it to eternal torment. But not before he'd left his legacy in her womb."

Nex laughed hollowly, glad it had been hours since he'd eaten or he may have retched. "So it's easy to see why she loathed me. Why I was worthy of such suffering."

Medivh's voice came surprisingly sharp. "You did not deserve what happened to you! No one deserves such pain, not the vilest sinner the world has ever seen. You were an innocent child." His voice broke. "Sweetest mercy, boy, you are a vessel of unimaginable strength to have taken such pain within you without breaking."

"As you were, Uncle? Your own mother birthed you to be the vessel of a demon lord's possession."

That lined face, creased with decades of guilt and self-hatred, grew pallid. "For all her faults, pride the greatest of them, Aegwynn did not know what she'd done to me. Lynda knew full well every vile act she committed against you, and relished them all."

"So in suffering I surpass even the great Medivh, the most cursed name in all of Azeroth."

His great-uncle's pale face flushed, though it remained compassionate. "I see the reports of those I've spoken to hold that truth, at least. That the tongue of Nex-thanarak cuts deep and without mercy."

"And why shouldn't it?" Nex shot back. "Tell me, Uncle, how you came by such intimate knowledge of my past, but couldn't be bothered to intervene?"

Medivh looked away. "I came late to this tale, having learned of a boy of dark reputation, of my family's name spoken once more in Stormwind. I found the foul cave that was your birthplace and raised the spirit of Lynda called the Demonologist, and from her lips tore every detail of her past, and yours."

"I don't suppose you bothered to hold onto that spirit, did you?" Nex asked casually.

For the first time disgust flashed across the old man's features. "You do not want what, boy. The one mercy of the past is that it stays buried."

"You'd know. What of this Darius Felsin you claim is my sire? Might I contact him and have this story from his lips?"

"And what would you do if you could have him? You picked a worthy target for your hatred in the Burning Legion, even if every step you've taken in pursuit of it has been foolish and cursed."

Nex finally pushed to his feet, legs still shaky from what he'd just suffered. Medivh was not a tall man, but even so his uncle loomed over him. Nex straightened to his full height before that figure in his heavy mantle and stood silent, waiting.

"Have you nothing to say, boy?"

"It is you who came to me, Uncle. Did you think I'd be glad to see you, source of all my suffering? Did you think I'd be pleased to hear this tale you've spun for me? I have no pity for my mother; her own suffering can't wash away mine. And as for Darius he means less than nothing to me. And you are wrong about me, because I am broken, far too deeply to ever mend."

"Then why are you still here? I do not compel you to stay."

Nex smiled, revealing his long canines. "You seem to know so much about me and my past, the family your actions drove to near extinction. And you know of my own actions, and seem to disapprove. If you know so perfectly who I am then you know what I am as well. I'm waiting for you to condemn me."

Medivh's eyes glittered at him beneath thick brows. "For murder? For treachery? For consorting with dark powers and willingly serving a monster?" His uncle laughed harshly. "Who are you talking to, boy? I don't believe in redemption as servants of the Light would define it, but I do believe that every wasted life is a defeat. That even the vilest of creatures is capable of doing some good for the world."

"You believe that," Nex said mockingly.

The older man's features hardened. "I would have long ago given in to despair if I didn't. For my own life is the standard by which I try to prove my belief valid. I brought the orcs to the world, yes, but I also led the new warchief, Thrall, to Kalimdor so he could be there to battle the Burning Legion, as I urged King Terenas to heed my warning, and later Archmage Antonidas and finally his pupil, Jaina Proudmoore. I was able to influence events to lead to Archimonde's defeat and the salvation of Azeroth."

"I have no interest in shaping a brighter future. Not even for myself."

Medivh smiled. "Ah yes, your constant banter about how enticing death is. What you call courage as you rush into any situation that could spell your demise, fingers crossed that you'll fail even as you fight with all your strength to survive."

"No less than I deserve."

"Wrong. You seek death because it is easy. Because it is tempting to you in your pain and self-loathing. But you do not seek it too hard, for you know that in death there can be no redemption."

"Don't be a fool. Even the paladins think me beyond redemption. Even the naaru themselves."

"The paladins do not understand. Their faith in, and their need for, justice is absolute. They cannot see that there is never the possibility for redemption in justice, that justice offers only destruction to redress destruction, pain for pain. As for the naaru, they understand things only in the context of their own thought processes. A thing either works or it is broken, unfixable. They do not see that evil men can be capable of good, and good men capable of evil."

Nex laughed harshly. "From my experience with paladins, I doubt you'd ever be able to convince them of that. And I can guarantee you would fail to bring such concepts to the attention of a naaru."

"I care nothing for servants of the Light, boy, I speak of you. You will not find redemption in oblivion, no matter how deserving you may be of that end. Only through a lifetime spent in the service of mankind can you atone for your past deeds."

"A fine ideal," he sneered.

Medivh drew up, the power of his disapproval nearly knocking Nex backwards. "Do you think I don't know exactly of what I speak, Nex-thanarak? In my failure to humanity I suffered in the depths of villainy, and it was by the hand of my own student that I perished. Since that moment I've spent the time remaining to me clawing towards the very redemption you yearn for. My past, boy, my legacy, was one of darkness. Controlled by an evil I couldn't fight I brought a terrible enemy to this world, and eventually died for my sins. But that has not stopped me from working ceaselessly for the good of Azeroth. In comparison your own history is far less dark, and your future far brighter."

Nex turned away. "What makes you think I long for redemption? What makes you think I don't desire that oblivion you speak of?"

"Because you are still alive."

The words cut deep, making him feel as if he could not breathe. "Too great a coward to seek death," he shot back.

Medivh's brilliant eyes bored into his soul, so Nex could feel their weight in his second sight. "I believe it is not cowardice that has you desperate to survive, but hope."

Nex turned back. "Hope," he said with an incredulous laugh.

"A merciless sensation for one such as you. A thing too painful for you to acknowledge in yourself, tantalizing and unbearable in what it offers. But it is there, shining so brightly that a light emerges in the shadows."

Bitterness twisted inside his gut, sharper than any pain of digestion. He fished beneath his tunic and drew out the Illidari stone. "This is the death of hope, Uncle. The end of a future with any sort of freedom."

Medivh looked at the stone, making no move to touch it or take it from him. "Ah yes, the focal point of your link to the Betrayer. Let me examine it."

Nex made no response, and the last Guardian of Tirisfal fell still. Long minutes passed, interrupted only by the noises coming from the Scourge encampment below. Finally Medivh spoke quietly. "Yes, I see. You are correct, it is very similar to the soul link a warlock uses to ensnare his demonic minion, and by which he draws power from that minion."

"Well, since we've already established that I'm not a demon it can't be very similar after all."

"You're wrong. The power which binds demons is their fel blood. That corruption within gives them power, makes them creatures of vile magic, but wherever there is power it can be used by another. There is power within you as well, not so different from what demons wield. But where their slavery cannot be resisted yours is willing, tied to your power. As the oaths you make are bound by it as well."

Nex couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Are you suggesting what I think you are?"

"I am. Give up your power and in the void the soul link reverses, restoring to you all that was lost. Including your freedom."

"Yes, and depriving me of my power in the process. At which point I become nothing more than a weak cripple, barely able to hobble along."

"At which point the dreams which plague you, which I just watched you suffer through for hours, will have no more power to hold you. You may still have nightmares, and who would not after what you've suffered, but you can wake from them as you please."

Nex recalled his words to Montfere just days ago. _You know what's more pathetic than an exile whose only companion is his power? An exile with no power, held in contempt by all._ That is what Medivh was asking from him. What sort of freedom was that?

"Tempting as this option is, I have but to follow Stormrage to the Frozen Throne and, win or lose, I am free."

"Are you?" Medivh asked, bushy brows furrowing. "What other prices will he demand for this "freedom"? What consequences will he inflict upon you once you are no longer bound? As a servant you've not always pleased him, have you, for a master such as him is not easily pleased."

"If I gave up my power now I'd surely die in the cold north."

His uncle smiled. "I think not. Death finds you slippery, boy. And you may find that when you step forth out of the shadows you will find your way to a new power. That is what I offer you, Nephew. Your first step on the path to redemption, freedom from an evil master, and hope for something greater than you have now."

"Without my powers I am nothing," Nex whispered.

"No. _With _your powers you are Nothing. Nex has no meaning in any language save demonic."

If he did this Marbrand and the others could go free as well. He could go south with them, facing a true future. "Why are you so eager to see me abandon this course? As the Prophet you worked to prevent the threat of the Scourge, the threat of the Burning Legion, and crafted an alliance that spelled the ultimate defeat of Archimonde. But you wish me to abandon humanity's greatest chance to destroy the Scourge?"

Medivh shook his head. "Illidan will prevail at the Frozen Throne. Or Arthas will prevail. Either future is bleak for a time, before heroes rise bright to challenge the darkness. But in only one future do you walk away from this free and unburdened by that darkness."

Nex stood silent, torn by this decision. Each path seemed harsh to him. "My second sight?"

"Will not be what it was. You may be truly blind for a time."

Nex turned his head away. "I must refuse. This path you offer me, I do not have the courage for it."

His uncle looked at him sadly. "It is not courage you lack, but hope."

"I thought it was hope I had that kept me from doing what I thought I lacked the courage to do."

"Do not play clever games with words here, boy. I will not let you throw away hope." Medivh reached to the clasp of his mantle, the red shard of a jewel that was bound to it. He undid the clasp, holding it shut with the hand that held the staff as he proffered the gem in its setting. "Follow this path if you must, but do not turn aside completely from the way I offer."

Nex slowly took the item, frowning. "I did not sense its power beside your staff. What is it?"

"It is called a Vortex crystal. Drive it into your heart and your power will flow into it permanently."

Nex hefted the slightly warm, deep red gem. "I can draw power from it."

"If you have the wits and courage. It is a confluence of powers: power goes into it, power comes out, but they will never touch. Beware drawing from it, for you can never guess what school of magic will flow into you. In skilled hands it can give the caster power to create any spell, but far more often it proves too elusive for even the most skilled, and in unskilled hands is nothing short of perilous. It was a gift from my father." The old man smiled grimly. "You could say it is the _true_ heirloom of the Aran family, an artifact of Karazhan. Beside it our ring is a petty trinket to satisfy vain children."

"And you gift it to me."

"Yes, Nex. So that a way will always be open to you, no matter how tight the chains may seem. I give you the gift of freedom, to make up for all you suffered in consequence of my actions."

Nex tucked the Vortex crystal away. "I'll take the gift, but you shouldn't entertain any hopes of me making use of it."

The old man smiled. "Deliberation is a trap you don't want to fall into when action is needed. But at the same time, you should never be afraid to rethink a rash decision."

"Deliberation is a trap you never want to fall into. Most people know their options almost immediately. Deliberation is simply them wasting time trying to decide which is best when no such decision is possible. When I decide something I tend to stick to-"

A high, brassy horn sounded, cutting him off. Nex leaned over the ledge, looking south, in time to see the officers of the undead elves moving down the ranks shouting. Then, with smooth precision, the stiff ranks broke into motion, marching as a block along the western side of the slope leading out of the pass.

"It appears action is needed at this time," Medivh observed, gazing down as well. Behind the ranks of undead elves living people in black and purple robes were swarming, following along behind, and encircling this group a large body of more conventional undead, including several skeletal casters escorted by necromancers.

"Shall we, then?" Nex gestured to the space beneath them, which was rapidly clearing.

But his uncle shook his head. "I'm not here for the Scourge, lad. I'm here for you. Now that my purpose is complete I take my leave."

Nex felt his anticipation for the upcoming battle turning to anger. "What? Why would you not help?"

"Have you heard nothing of what I've said? Illidan or Arthas the victory means little, only those who survive it and break free matter. As one of the few remaining scions of the Aran lineage I have an interest in seeing you come out of this alive. But my role in world events now is relegated to observing and giving warning, not openly fighting for a cause."

"Then, not to be rude, but your talk of finding redemption through future actions is bullshit."

Medivh made no response to this other than to catch his mantle with his free hand, encircling it tighter about him. But instead of the cloth reaching the limit of its length it continued to circle, magic swirling out to engulf the last Guardian of Tirisfal. His tall, broad-shouldered form began to hunch in upon itself, shrinking, until the swirling magic engulfed him for a flurried instant. When it cleared in his place perched the black bird which had stood between Nex and the Lich King.

The bird hopped to the edge, turned back a final time to scream at him, and then threw itself into the air, wings beating heavily. Nex watched silently as his uncle circled higher and higher, until finally he went out of range of his second sight.

Then he looked down at the army below and cursed. Medivh might have been able to destroy this force singlehandedly, the selfish bastard. But alone or with aid Nex knew where he needed to strike.

Activating his levitation he dropped straight down, only a foot or so from scraping against the cliff's edge.

. . . . .

"They're coming fast!" Alvin called, leading his group of scouts at a full sprint towards them.

Marbrand cursed. Of course they were. Those horns he'd heard earlier had been warning enough. He already had Blackfinger getting the troops geared for battle and out of the box canyon. It might have made a good defensible position if their army was a tenth the size, but as it was they'd barely have room to swing a sword, and furthermore they'd be trapped like eels in a barrel if they didn't get out in time.

Against an enemy like the Scourge, retreat should always be an option.

Olivia and Havel had sought him in the chaos, and the three now stood just outside of the canyon, out of the way of the soldiers streaming out. In the chaos they'd abandoned their testing, since obviously it couldn't continue with an attack imminent. Still, it made Marbrand leery, wondering who among his own allies was ready to stab him in the back when his guard was down.

"I don't think it's any coincidence," Havel was saying. "We kill three Cultists with our testing, and suddenly the army in the Pass is coming after us?"

"But why now? Why not when Geana died hours ago? They couldn't care that much about a handful of infiltrators whose usefulness has outlived itself. Not enough to try to save the rest."

"What if they were simply waiting for useful information about our numbers and capabilities?" Olivia suggested. "If at death their souls return to their fellow Cultists and can report in, they might have all the information they think they need to mount a successful attack."

"But the only reason we caught Geana in the first place was because she snuck out of camp to report in." Olivia looked surprised, and had nothing to say to that.

Alvin and his scouts had arrived, and the man had heard the last few comments. "Maybe they just got tired of waiting."

"Or," Havel cut in, "maybe it's something our fearless leader did after wandering off without telling us where he was going or what he was doing. Maybe he kicked the hornet's nest."

"Marbrand!" Blackfinger called from the clear space where he was struggling to form the recruits into a line. Marbrand nodded to him and turned to the others.

"It doesn't really matter why they're attacking, only that they are. Lady Olivia, Havel, find the elf mage and Bobbulus and take your position behind the line. Alvin, take the left flank just beneath the cliff." Without waiting for a response he turned and trotted for the front of the line.

Blackfinger took several seconds to respond to his call as Marbrand approached, and when his friend finally turned his way he looked grim and distracted. "The formation's not quite like we drilled for, sir," the big man said, "but it's all we've got time for."

Marbrand nodded and took his position, but he was troubled all the same. His friend was usually better about ordering the men, more focused. Obviously he was still torn up about his lover's death, and maybe resentful that he was the only one after the others learned what Geana had done.

"Blackfinger, get the men-" he cut off, staring as his second broke away from his place in the line and walked over. "What are you doing?"

The big man leaned close. "Find someone else to take my position of command, Dare," he said. His face was curiously blank, eyes hollow, and he held his greataxe nearly dragging on the ground as if he'd forgotten it was there.

"What do you mean, find someone else?"

"The Scourge took my life away from me when Geana betrayed me. I can't bolster the line or organize the men because I won't be in the line."

Marbrand caught his friend's arm. "Lew, you can't go running amok with this enemy. They'll overwhelm you and tear you to pieces."

Blackfinger lifted his axe, holding it steady in a white-knuckled grip. "They're welcome to try." Without another word his friend turned and made his way back to his place in the line.

Marbrand cursed. How could he argue against that sort of pain and fury? Should he even try? "Jocal, you have the right wing!" he called. _Be safe, my friend._

The undead came into view over the rise, and Marbrand felt a surge of despair. Hundreds of them, well-equipped and in ordered ranks, moving forward at a steady, measured pace. And his own troops: thin, nervous and poorly equipped, outnumbered and facing death and undeath both. Could they hold?

"Ilinar!" he called. The boy, irritatingly enough positioned on the front line and apparently no one saying he couldn't, trotted up, and Marbrand leaned close to his ear. "Find Devan in the ranks. He's got an old orcish warhorn. Get it and position yourself at the back of the army." He held up a finger. "If I signal you with a number you blow the horn that many times."

"What do the numbers mean?"

Marbrand raised his voice to answer. "Men! One blast of the horn means withdraw in an orderly fashion toward the box canyon. Two means open retreat westward!" The men grumbled at that, a few asking why they didn't run now. But it was too late, the undead elves had quickened their pace. Marbrand raised his voice to a bellow. "Tighten the line! Prepare for battle!"

Behind the precise ranks of approaching undead elves a large bulk of the Scourge army had come within range and now stopped, a varied glow lighting the air around their position. Red, orange, and yellow for flames, blue and white for frost, purple and silver for arcane. Far rarer were the livid green and black from the necromancers.

"Shit," one of the men down the line groaned. "Mages. I hate mages."

"You and everyone else," Jocal said.

"Um guys, standing right here," the elf woman, Saire, called from somewhere behind them.

Marbrand ignored the banter. "Magical barrage incoming!" he roared. "Shields up!" All down the line men raised their shields at an angle to block the incoming attack. But those who knew magic understood that the wood would be a weak protection, if any. Marbrand fought to control his own dread.

_Light divine, let it not be fire coming at me._

From behind he heard a strangled grunt from Saire and a frustrated snarl from Bob, and a dozen or of those glowing lights winked out. But not enough; from the group of mages the spells loosed, some in unison but many staggered before or after, creating sort of an amorphous glowing bulge that tapered in front and behind, swiftly arcing over the heads of the calmly marching undead elves and descending towards the human army.

Marbrand dropped to a crouch, lifting his shield over him, and braced for the blast.

. . . . .

By the time Nex caught up to the enemy spellcasters they'd already loosed a barrage at the Sons of Lothar. It was no trivial attack; as the spells fell among the front line of the human forces explosions rang out, men screamed, and dozens went flying or dropped where they stood. How many dead with just that one attack?

But he couldn't afford to think of that now. He just had to make sure they turned their attention away from Marbrand and his men before loosing a second devastating barrage. The undead Rangers were getting into it too, now, loosing flights of arrows, but the shields the Sons of Lothar raised foiled the worst bite of that attack.

Nex began gathering his power.

There were plenty of reasons to bunch spellcasters, the greatest of which was easier coordination amongst themselves and less soldiers required to guard their position. But Nex would show the Scourge the lesson they should already have learned about clumping up against him after the battle of the beach.

As he sized up the situation Nex was left wondering how such a small force of Cultists and undead had managed to defeat Kanviel's forces. From what he could see aside from the necromancers the entire force of Scourge spellcasters were reanimated elvish mages. The undead elvish rangers and melee fighters almost quadrupled the number of other undead. Either Kanviel had been caught seriously off guard or his elves were pathetic fighters.

Except from what he could see of the army marching inexorably towards the broken human line the undead elves were disciplined and better equipped, overmatching the humans they faced.

But they'd have to fight that match without their casters. Preparing to unleash the fury of the shadows, harming and stunning the casters as they prepared their second volley, Nex thrust his hand out and began to complete the spell matrix.

Only to see it shredded, the power torn from his control. He heard a low boom and felt himself flying, struggling to right himself in the air as he hit the packed snow hard and flipped.

Nex cursed and struggled to his feet, unable to believe they'd anticipated his spell in time to counter it. It was the first time he'd truly been countered and it infuriated him how his attempts to wield shadow magic now felt like trying to grab a slug from an oiled glass surface. But even ineffective, his countered spell had had the desired effect; the undead casters almost universally turned their attention on him, and his second sight caught dozens of spells being prepared.

Shit. He reached down and gripped NexTaeja's hilt. _Shut the hell up_, he thought before the sword could even say anything. _How powerful of a shield can we channel?_

_'I thought your friend the abomination of unlife told you to reduce the strength of the spells you cast, not go all out.'_

_I'll rank down. Some other time, though. _Nex yanked the sword partway out of its sheath, feeling power surge into him. It didn't burn now as it had when he was using his own power to strengthen his body. At least, not as much. Focusing hard, he managed to generate a shield greater than any he'd ever created, right in time to weather the first barrage of spells. Then the second.

At the periphery of his attention he was aware of ordered line of undead elves slamming into the humans struggling to regroup. The weight of their charge was such that half a dozen pockets pushed right through the lines then turned, turning the human ranks to chaos.

But he didn't have much attention to spare for the battle as a whole. After less than ten seconds it was already obvious that the hail of spells against his shield would be almost nonstop, and channeling so much power to maintain the shield was so physically draining that he'd slumped to his knees, fearful of strengthening his body while wielding NexTaeja.

_'Oh well done. Searching through your head I believe the appropriate term for what you're doing is "turtling." _The sword conveyed to Nex's mind the image of a turtle with its legs, tail, and head pulled into its shell. To make the point of his helplessness even more readily apparent the turtle was on its back.

Nex gritted his teeth. _I'm aware of the concept. Any options presenting themselves to you?_

_'Of course. Sit here within the shield until it's overwhelmed, then be variously burned, frozen, and blasted apart. Considering the fact that there's more than forty spellcasters attacking you that shouldn't take long.'_

_Let's call that option two. Anything else?_

_'Well there is the obvious solution, drawing me completely and wading through anything that opposes you in a storm of death and destruction. Unfortunately that option isn't available to you.'_

The shield pulsed and flickered, and Nex swore and drew NexTaeja half an inch further, letting more power flood into him. As he struggled to hold his concentration his mind flailed for another option.

_'You do understand that it's impossible to win defensively in this situ-'_

_I know!_

. . . . .

Marbrand spared himself the luxury of a split second to gape at the light show at the back of the Scourge army before jerking his shield up to fend off warglaive swung by an undead elf officer. He shrugged the blow aside, and in the opening hacked his broadsword down into the undead's knee. It barely paused in bringing its weapon back around, balanced on one leg until Marbrand kicked it out from under the creature. As it fell he shoved one foot down against its chest and slammed his shield through its neck and into the ground, sending the thing's head rolling away.

What had that been? If he had to guess he would say that the Scourge casters that had just torn a swath through his front line had all found a new target, and thankfully in time to prevent them from loosing another devastating barrage. Whatever their new target was, it was not only a single target worthy of their combined attention, but one that was still somehow standing to judge by the continued actinic glare of red, blue, purple, and combinations of the three that lit his peripheral vision.

It could only be Nex, unless a new ally had presented itself. Who else could withstand that sort of magical assault for more than a few seconds?

But whatever the young lord faced, Marbrand couldn't spare more than a few thoughts for it in the chaos of his own struggle to survive. The magical volley had shattered the cohesion of his line, and into that chaos the undead foot soldiers had marched, not just pushing against the front but shoving through any opening to break his army apart into pockets.

He hacked down an undead ranger trying to escape the fighting so it could bring its bow back into action, severing the bow and then the hand from the wrist that held it, then knocking the maimed creature aside and bulling forward. He found the pocket of his men he'd been fighting to reach, all of whom wore fierce expressions of relief when they caught sight of him.

"Here, sir!" a woman recruit called, moving aside in the little knot of outward-facing soldiers. Marbrand took her place, and with a few roared orders made his position the new spearpoint. Leading his heartened soldiers, he began fighting to where another group desperately struggled to keep from being overwhelmed.

. . . . .

All the spells none should have stood out, but there was one mage who was launching arcane missiles one after the other, bursting against his shield like miniature explosions. Despite the creature's undead state it looked almost like a deathly pale twin of Saire Firedge.

If he found a way to counterattack he was going to aim it so she was the epicenter.

If he found a way. _This isn't going to work forever. Is there some way I can cast a different spell while maintaining this shield?_

_'That depends. Interested in creating another implosion and slagging your mind?'_

His thoughts raced. _What about if I used a school of magic besides shadow?_

_'Fire is no good, it stems from the same corrupt source.'_

He reached into his cloak and withdrew the Vortex crystal. _What about a random school of magic?_

_'You have a one in five chance of drawing shadow and causing the same problem. Not to mention it'll take extreme concentration to cast two spells at once, and in two different schools of magic, without the two sources of energy fouling each other up. Probably catastrophically.'_

_Better than dropping the shield and attempting a counterattack._

_'If you were closer to them you could attempt a holy nova.'_

_A what?_

_'Never mind. You'd be dead before you learned the spell matrix.'_

Looked as if it was back to option one. Medivh had said almost nobody ever managed to control multiple schools of magic, and that was understandable; his own spells were complex enough that only familiarity with their workings made them possible with any sort of speed.

Which left just releasing the energy raw, which would further strain him physically and might end very badly. At the moment he didn't seen an alternative, however.

Whatever this holy nova was, NexTaeja was right in that he needed to be closer. In the midst of the spellcasters, even, so the released energy would hit them all. He hobbled forward at the best speed he could manage, dearly wishing he still had his Blinkstrike. As he ran he focused on his shield, the sword's power, and the crystal all at once, dropping the focus of his second sight only enough to know he was going in the right direction. Undead warriors were swarming around him now, as well as Cultists, but his shield protected from physical damage as well as magical.

Then he became aware of the undead casters dispersing, apparently realizing what he was about. Without pausing to consider potential consequences Nex drew all the energy the Vortex crystal offered and released it. In the same moment the shield winked out, and he stopped drawing NexTaeja's power completely; the sword and Medivh had both been right, he didn't have the concentration for it.

A dagger slashed across his upper arm, and he barely had time to duck a longsword's thrust before half a dozen spells hit him simultaneously. He jerked, twisted, and writhed his way to the ground, all the while letting the unfamiliar school of magic he was drawing from the Vortex crystal explode outward through him.

He hadn't known whatever it was was working until he realized that no further attacks were hitting him. That and the ground he landed atop was writhing beneath him. He focused his second sight once more, and realized it was plants, seedlings and vines, dozens of them if not hundreds, pushing through the snow and ice from the cold but not frozen earth and growing upwards. They had already entangled themselves around the undead surrounding him, and the field of their influence was spreading.

Nature magic, then. It struck him as somewhat amusing that that would be the magic he drew, a magic as foreign to his destructive power as holy power.

The power flowing through him from the Vortex crystal abruptly ceased, and the thing began drawing upon his power instead. Nex shoved the red shard back into his cloak and stumbled to his feet. The plants the nature magic had coaxed into growth had stopped burgeoning, and in this cold, inhospitable climate they were swiftly dying, while those trapped within their entanglement were beginning to free themselves. He probably wouldn't have much time.

Stumbling to his feet and cursing in pain from the spells and attacks that had landed, Nex pushed power into his body, created a shield of his own power, and focused his attention upon the ground all around him.

A moment later heat shattered the soil, sending rocks flying upwards into the air. Even as they fell his power caught hold of them, melting them and drawing them swifter to the ground.

As Nex stood swaying, drawing a torpedo into either hand, fire rained down around him.

. . . . .

The line was nonexistent at this point.

Undead had broken through in multiple places, so there were almost as many behind them as in front, and his men had been reduced to fighting in desperate pockets with undead swarming all around them.

Marbrand desperately needed to find some way to regroup, to get his army back in formation, because as it stood they seemed just moments away from being overrun. These undead elves were a higher caliber of undead than what they'd faced in Lordaeron. Less mindless and savage and more coordinated and intelligent in their movement and attack, as if some portion of what the elves had been in live had followed them into death. But added to their skill at arms and their disciplined coordination was an utter fearlessness and complete absence of pain.

He'd never faced anything quite like them. Even those demons most overwhelmed by bloodlust could still be stunned, still be repulsed. But not these. And he had no time to organize his soldiers, because as it was he was fighting desperately for his life.

At the very least the mages were still out of the battle. Looking over he could see, of all things, what looked like fire raining down from the sky and blasting into the rear Scourge ranks, which seemed oddly immobile although he couldn't see well through the chaos of battle.

He'd seen similar spells from orcish warlocks, but he'd never expected to see anything like it here.

He ducked and twisted, throwing an undead Ranger off his back and swinging his sword after it as it flew away. A _crack_ shivered up his arm, but he had no idea how solid the blow had hit. Two more Rangers caught at him, while a third swung an unstrung bow at his head that he barely ducked beneath.

He'd led his group through the undead ranks, which were now as chaotic as those of his own army, and into where the Rangers were still bunched. Although it seemed counterintuitive these undead were more poorly armed and armored for melee combat, and as they massed around his group trying to overwhelm them they held out the stronger elvish melee fighters who would've been more dangerous.

His people were still being overwhelmed, of course, but not as fast as they would've been.

Unfortunately they were faring better than most. A large fragment of the army had managed to retreat back into the canyon and were holding the choke point the mouth presented, although undead were beginning to scale the cliffs to either side and drop down from above. In his desperate fighting he could see other pockets of resistance among the seething undead, some being overrun even as he watched. He had no idea where Ilinar with the warhorn had gone, but he doubted anyone would be able to break away even if he had sounded the retreat.

The undead had surrounded them and were now pressing in.

The main pockets of resistance were centered around the casters, which was not wholly unexpected. The mages were cutting swaths of devastation in the midst of the undead, and any nearby Sons of Lothar rallied to those pockets before they closed. The priests' contributions were more subtle, Olivia with a large party providing them heart and courage and tending their wounded, while repulsing the undead wherever they pressed thickest while Janis singlehandedly guarded her back from undead hitting the back of the group. Havel had his undead porters clustered around him offering a wall of bodies, and he was killing undead one by one with ribbons of dark energy or blasts of shadow that melted their faces or occasionally even made their heads explode.

But it was not all the casters. Alvin and a handful of his scouts had managed to scale the cliffs and were knocking loose any undead that tried to climb up after them. A short distance away Blackfinger had his back to the cliff and appeared nothing so much as unleashed fury personified. Any undead who came within range of his axe was swept away, and when they came four, five, six at a time they still went down with each devastating sweep. The big man was already balanced precariously on a field of broken dead, and in front of him an artificial barricade of those he destroyed was slowing the Scourge's attempts to get at him.

Marbrand was expecting his friend to use this reprieve to his advantage, but instead Blackfinger, not seeming satisfied with a smaller number of enemies to face as the others tried to get around or over the wall, actually kicked a hole in it and waded out into the press of bodies. He was almost immediately overwhelmed, but somehow in a storm of axe swings he sent them all flying, only to be swarmed again.

"Shit," Marbrand snarled, ducking a dangerously accurate slash of his opponent's warglaive and charging the undead elf with his shoulder. "Make for Blackfinger!" he yelled at the few men still with him.

His friend had stepped away from the line, and in most cases putting the line at risk to go after him would have been disastrous. But there was no line anymore, and fighting in one direction was just as good as another when enemies were all around.

He just hoped Blackfinger wasn't so frenzied he'd attack his own allies if they came in reach of his axe.

. . . . .

The problem with the ground was that, rocky as the soil was, it was still too earthy. The molten rock raining down was doing its damage, but not as much as he would've liked. So he turned to the slope of scree to his right and used that instead, sending several tons of rock exploding into the air, slagged to molten fire, then raining down upon the undead around him.

An added benefit of the spell was that the dying plants, which had been relaxing their hold, tensed up ever tighter as the flames cut at them, restricting the undead more effectively.

Unfortunately after only two volleys his rain of fire was countered, the undead mages finally managing to break away from the entangling plants. Nex staggered and nearly fell as the last pitters of flaming stone landed, that school of magic unavailable to him for a time. Instead he threw a shadowfury spell at the casters, stunning them and tossing them aside like ninepins. His reserves were plummeting with every spell, but he maintained his shield and darted forward into their midst, striking with his torpedoes.

He cast other shadow spells too, struggling to match his concentration to the task of seeing in all directions with his second sight, casting his shield anew each time it failed, and sending out shadowbolts. When he finally worked past the counterspell's effects he unleashed hellfire, sending it out in a ring to all sides, eating ever farther outward and incinerating undead casters to all sides.

When he judged the spell had gone far enough he released it and staggered, falling to one knee. His reserves were nearly gone, now, his body so battered and drained that trying to wield NexTaeja would probably kill him at this point.

But when he pushed back to his feet he realized the undead casters were all dead, the few necromancers fled to a different part of the battle. The acolytes that had swarmed him as he made for the casters had fled as well, hitting a pocket of Sons of Lothar near the cliff. The undead soldiers that had been all around him were down, twitching. They'd been closest when his hellfire went off.

_Magic against magic. You like that, Marbrand?_ But now with his reserves depleted it was time to go might against might.

Gripping his torpedoes tightly he fed a little more power to his body and limped forward.

. . . . .

His group of soldiers was gone. Blackfinger was gone before he could ever reach his friend's position. Marbrand didn't know if they were dead or if he'd simply lost track of everyone in the frantic fighting. All he knew was he faced enemies all around, his face had been raked by a skeleton's bony fingers and he couldn't open his right eye without intense pain, and an elvish Ranger had left a short sword buried in the flesh behind his knee, crippling him and making every step an agony. He dared not pause to pull it out; he didn't have the time, and he may bleed to death quickly if he did.

He was getting desperate, but oddly enough the undead around him weren't piling in to bear him down and kill him. Instead they seemed to be almost leading him forward, attacking from the front while they left him alone behind and to the sides, so all he could do was take one limping step forward after another and flail at those in front of him. Even that was becoming harder, and with one step his leg buckled and he would have fallen to one knee if the short sword dug into his leg had let it bend.

At that moment the press around Marbrand abruptly withdrew, the undead elves creating a circle around him. Into that circle strode an elf in heavy scarlet plate, wielding a massive warglaive in one hand and bearing a tall tower shield in the other. The undead glared at him with eyes that burned with blue fire, lips pulled back into a snarl of hatred. "Face me, burned knight," he said, voice echoing deadly in his helmet.

Marbrand set himself. "Kanviel."

The elf laughed. "All the time, I doubted myself for mistrusting you, only to learn that in the end I mistrusted you too little."

"What madness is this? We were ever faithful."

"Faithful!" Kanviel spat. "Not hours after you deserted us here one of your number returned, claiming a message from Lokiv whom you call Nex. He knew intimate details of your army, of your command, and we let him in.

"He carried a plague, burned knight! Within a day our entire camp was weakened, some dying. You'd taken with you all the healers and left behind a dread disease carried by a faithless messenger! And when we were weakest the Scourge fell upon us and slaughtered us all!"

Marbrand stared at the undead elf in horror. A message from Nex? A messenger carrying disease? "This was not of my doing."

Kanviel hefted his warglaive. "The time for doubting your trustworthiness is past, human. The Master has taken all uncertainty from me! Soon he will do the same for yo-"

The undead elf jerked backwards, head dropping. For a moment he skittered on his feet in a way that should have been impossible, and then his feet left the ground entirely. Snarling, Kanviel lifted his head again and Marbrand saw the thin cord wrapped around his neck, and the two hands holding it tight. Kanviel dropped his warglaive to scrabble at the cord, hissing in irritation, even as he pivoted and swung out desperately with his shield.

When he twisted the Castaway was revealed, pressed tight against Kanviel's back where no attack could reach him. Marbrand had no idea where the elf had come from, or how he'd managed to garrote Kanviel while they were surrounded by a ring of undead.

The Castaway looked over. "What are you waiting for, me to choke an undead to death? Come carve your name in him while I've got him off-balance."

Marbrand hesitated. "This was honorable single combat, Castaway."

The elf laughed mockingly. "You want to fight a duel with a fucking zombie?"

Kanviel finally managed to get his feet on the ground. Immediately he bent and arched his back, throwing the Castaway over his shoulder. By some incredible feat of agility the Castaway managed to twist the garrote to keep it around Kanviel's neck, pulling himself tight against the undead elf's shield and wrapping his legs around Kanviel's left knee, locking his feet together. Kanviel reached over with his free right hand and began tearing at the Castaway's arm, and the elf screamed in pain.

Marbrand lunged forward on his good leg and swung, hacking his ugly broadsword down into the shoulder of Kanviel's right arm. The rondel gave way, a jagged shard digging down into the undead elf's flesh. Kanviel ignored the wound and bunched his right fist, swinging it around, but Marbrand turned it with his blade and then hacked at the shoulder again.

At about that time the Castaway managed to get a better position, and even as Marbrand hacked Kanviel's arm off, sending it flying away, the elf kicked Kanviel's legs out from under him and sent him tumbling to the ground. Immediately the Castaway was atop Kanviel's chest, both ends of the garrote pulled tightly in his left hand while he drew his dagger with his right and used it to put out the undead elf's eyes.

Kanviel heaved, swinging his shield, and the Castaway leapt aside just ahead of it, dancing back. He almost fell into the blade of an undead, the circle of undead elves beginning to close now that their leader was engaged in an unfair fight, and within moments the Castaway was fighting desperately. Kanviel shoved to his feet awkwardly, using his shield for support, and began staggering around, trying to find them. As an undead he must have had some means of sensing the living, for even as he looked around blindly his feet were taking him closer to where the Castaway fought two undead elves at once with a longsword in one hand and his dagger in the other.

Marbrand stepped forward, drawing his sword back for a powerful swing, and even as Kanviel sensed him and began to turn his blade connected just beneath the helmet's cheek guards, biting into the neck and shattering it. He didn't sever the head completely, but as Kanviel staggered away and fell twitching he did so with his head hanging from a flap of skin.

Marbrand leapt forward to the Castaway's side, turning aside a Ranger's knife and slamming his shield into the creature's hip, lodging it in the bone. He heaved and sent the undead flying. "That was some of the dirtiest fighting I've ever seen!"

The Castaway grinned at him. "You would've seen dirtier, but I figured in his state Kanviel had more use for his eyes than his balls." The elf pivoted, putting his back to Marbrand's, and it was fortunate he did because the undead, now free of their leader's will, had become berserk and were pushing forward to tear them both apart.

"It looks like they have us by the shorthairs," Marbrand said grimly, catching a heavily swung blade on his shield and then heaving against it, throwing the press back for a moment.

The Castaway laughed quietly behind him. "Speak for yourself."

He turned his head to glare at the elf out of the corner of his eye. "What, you see a way out of this?"

"No. Just that I shave that area regularly."

Marbrand shuddered. "My only regret is that I die with that image in my thoughts."

. . . . .

With the massacred casters behind him, Nex limped at the best speed he could manage toward where the acolytes of the Cult of the Damned were pushing deeper into the box canyon. The closer he came the deeper his feet splashed through snow turned to slush by blood, and there were bodies scattered here and there. A few of the Cultists became aware of him and turned, brandishing sacrificial daggers or staffs, a few beginning to cast minor cantrips.

Nex flung a torpedo at the one he judged to be the most dangerous, silencing him by removing his tongue and most of his head. He calmly drew another torpedo from the sling on his back as the others closed. Then he was dancing among them, focused completely on his second sight, the weapons in his hands, and the enemies around him. He was slowed by his left leg, which was weaker than his right and encumbered by cast and injury, but still he was only hit a few times as he cut through the ranks of the Cult of the Damned. Unfortunately one of those times was a solid enough blow to his right elbow with a heavy staff that the joint shattered.

He staggered back, arm falling limp to his side and the torpedo in his hand dropping from nerveless fingers. But as the staff swung back he dove forward, ramming the point of his remaining torpedo into the Cultist's eye. As the woman dropped he twisted aside from a plunging dagger and smashed its wielder in the back of the head. The violence of the move sent his broken arm flopping, sending jolts of agony through him.

Then he staggered into a clear area littered with Cultist corpses, blood squelching beneath his feet. The few enemies that pursued him into that charnel field froze. Literally; chains of ice were winding their way up their bodies, rooting their legs. The effects were temporary, easing over time, but before they could so much as move Nex turned and slew all three with swift, well-placed thrusts to the heart. As blood sprayed over him he turned and stepped deeper into the clear area.

At its center a shape stood, a red monstrosity. Montfere, so drenched in blood that even his teeth were stained. And as the boy stood ready with Nex joining him the Cultists realized there were more important enemies to face elsewhere on the battlefield.

Nex slipped his torpedo into his belt and tore a bit off his cloak, using it to bind his arm to his side so it wouldn't flop around. "You're wounded," he told the boy.

"Olivia will heal me. These Cultists got the worst of it."

Nex let his second sight play coolly over the corpses around him. "What, did you skin them after killing them?"

Montfere drew a ragged breath and laughed. "No. I boiled the blood inside of them until it exploded out, falling everywhere like mist. Like rain." The last words were spoken almost as a whisper, and the boy slumped to the ground, unconscious. His breath came in short, fast gasps.

Nex looked around. The battle still raged fiercely, but the undead had lost much of their cohesion. Their leaders must have been destroyed. A few pockets of resistance were joining together, and from the box canyon a large group of soldiers were cutting their way out, Blackfinger at their head.

They may win yet, but it was far from over. Groaning slightly, he bent and picked the boy up, slinging him over his shoulder. Then he focused the remainder of his reserves and began searching for where he could use his few spells most efficiently, to best effect.


	21. Halved and Halved

Hey guys.

Sorry I couldn't manage to finish it all, and then for the long delay. As you can guess I burned myself out doing fifteen chapters in eleven days. I judged that enough for the time being and went on to a project I was eager to get started on, but I was so meh I just ended up giving up on that too after only twenty thousand words or so.

So I figure I should finally finish this so we can all celebrate. Thanks for being patient.

NT

Chapter Twenty

Halved and Halved

Why?

Lewis knew he wasn't a smart man. He didn't lament being unable to read, or do complex sums without paper and some time. He didn't grieve over his ignorance of Azeroth's history outside her many wars and victories. He learned by experience, as he'd learned the dangers of the cold when he'd let frostbite take his pinky and the surgeons nearly had to cut off his ring finger. It still ached in the heat, but he hadn't let the surgeons cut it off and never wood; it was a reminder of the unknown dangers around him he had to be wary of.

He knew soldiering. He knew how to put on armor, work the ties, repair it if it was broken. He knew the sword and axe and hammer. He could say the words that made men brave, stir in them memories of why they fought. He could order formations and hold the line.

But he was too ignorant to grasp whatever secret led these Cultists to their worship of death. That led Geana, sweet and soft and full of laughter and life, to try to smother him in his sleep with her cloak.

All he knew of death was ugly. There was no glory to it, no allure. It was vicious and brutal and senseless, as those who dealt it had to be. He'd taken enough wounds to know pain, he'd seen the fear of dying men. And he couldn't understand how a woman could listen when someone dark and evil came and offered her an eternity of death, when the alternative was the adventure and mystery of whatever world waited beyond this one.

He didn't know why. He didn't understand anything of what she'd done, what had led her to it or kept her on the course when she must have realized its inevitable conclusion.

He didn't know why he felt like her death was his fault. Why he almost wished she had smothered him to a peaceful grave so she could go on living, even with all the treachery he knew was in her heart.

With a sigh he finished binding the wound on his shoulder and began working the ties on his ruined shoulderplate, trying to get it back on. The sounds of battle, deafening clash of weapons, men's screams, the eerie silence of the undead cutting through the noise like a wound, washed over him as he focused on his efforts.

The only thing that registered was the song. A common soldier's song he remembered from old Azeroth, before he'd passed through the Dark Portal and the world, every world including that of his own life, had gone to hell. A song that had nothing to do with battle, but only standing on a log while the stream passed by beneath, waiting with anticipation for a lover to arrive. At the end of the song the lover had never came, and it was implied she never would.

There was a reason he'd sung that song, whatever the others had taken it as their own.

The recruits around him sang it with shaking voices, desperately clinging to it as the only source of focus and sanity in this situation. And as they sang they swung their weapons, fought to survive, even knowing death was upon them.

Without the song some of them may have already let death take them without struggle. Without Blackfinger's voice bellowing out the words as he cut his way to them they might have let themselves be overwhelmed. The fear of the dead was upon them, and they saw themselves reflected in those glowing blue elvish eyes.

And without those recruits Lewis might be dead too. Not from fear or weakness, either, but from despair. Fighting against the Scourge hordes until he was finally cut down and all the pain of his life could vanish. Until his guilt was gone.

Addleston, they'd called him growing up. The halfwit of the town. An unfair title, given as much for his freakish size and homely features as for any slowness of thought. But now he felt he deserved the name. All he knew was fighting, and here there was a fight but all he could think of was death, betrayal, and the still, cold figure of the woman he'd loved.

With a growl he stood, stooping to pick up his greataxe. It felt heavier than it should have, as if the blood and frozen gore coating it doubled its weight. But he held it steady as he pushed through the ranks of struggling soldiers to where Kyle fought, desperately trying to push their group out of the box canyon and possibly to a place where they could break away and flee this nightmare.

His instincts caused him to look up, to the slope above, in time to see an undead Ranger hurl itself from a ledge toward Kyle's back. Without any hesitation his axe swung, catching the monstrosity midair and sending it flying to slam against a rock, shattering its spine.

Kyle stared at him in shock, then over at the undead. "Goddess Earth," he whispered in a shaken voice.

Lewis slammed his axe back and down, shearing through the sword arm of an undead elf that would've gutted the boy while his gaze was turned away. "Keep singing," he snarled, "and for the love of Light, boy, keep swinging!"

Without waiting for a response he turned and swept his axe out in a broad crosswise slash, sending three undead flying back and easing the press. Lewis grimly stepped into that opening, adding his own voice to the song once more.

. . . . .

The battle didn't end quickly.

Undead do not tire, do not relent, and uncontrolled their ferocity was inhuman. It was won by attrition, one destroyed enemy at a time, falling back, regrouping, snatching reprieves lasting mere seconds. By the end casters were completely drained of mana, reduced to fighting hand to hand along with the rest.

Nex staggered through the battle, Montfere slung over the shoulder of his injured arm while he fought desperately with a torpedo in his remaining hand to keep the undead at bay. What power eked into him from drawing shadows was quickly spent, and between his injuries, the massive power he'd wielded, and his continual efforts his head was soon a blaze of pain and focusing his second sight was agony.

But even so undead fell to him one by one, or in groups when he could gather the power. Many times he focused his better spells on the undead fighting around the knots of humans, stunning or breaking the undead and giving his soldiers a chance to regain the momentum. Where possible he tried to clear away undead between to pockets to let them merge. With the first of those pockets he left Montfere, the man he passed the boy off to shying away at the blood which drenched the young half-elf. Then he turned and waded back into the fighting.

What could have been minutes or hours later he stumbled upon a pile of undead at the same time Blackfinger cut his way through, leading a large, exhausted group of recruits. Or perhaps it was better to call them veterans, now; few soldiers had fought a fight such as this one, and those that had deserved recognition.

"Nex!" the big man called. "Gods above, how are you still standing?"

Nex shattered the femur of a pursuing undead and staggered up onto the pile away from more. "The same way you are. Because we have to."

Blackfinger grunted and, barking commands, began ordering his soldiers around the pile. It was as good a place to hold as any. From the midst of those ranks Saire staggered out, one arm draped supportively around an exhausted Olivia. When the elf's eyes fell on him they widened in shock. "Nex? Sunwell's fury, I almost took you for an undead. Jagged bone is poking through your right elbow!"

Nex looked down. Ah, that explained the constant blinding pain. He started to speak, then sagged down onto the undead elf corpses, panting. Olivia shook free of Saire's support and crawled over, staring at his injury. "Well I have nothing to heal you with, but we can at least set that."

"Bind it well," Nex whispered. The older woman gripped his arm and, with a smooth, constant pressure, pushed the bone back into roughly the place it should be.

Nex blacked out for a moment, but refused to remain unconscious. As he fought his way back he was aware of bodies being dragged up onto the pile around him, wounded and a few of the dead. "Wait," he croaked.

Olivia and Saire paused in their efforts, looking over at him. "What?"

"You need to be moving bodies _off_ this pile. Nova and Marbrand are buried down there."

Saire's face went white, and Olivia gave a horrified gasp. To their desperate looks he could only shake his head. "Living, for now."

"Blackfinger!" Olivia shouted. The big man was almost a minute in answering the call, breaking away from the fighting. When he did, and heard what was happening, he pulled the men away from moving the wounded and set them to desperately pulling aside the bodies Nex indicated, until finally Nova and the burned knight were revealed.

Nova's wounds were lighter, and he was sprawled atop Marbrand as if protecting him to the last. The burned knight's face was ashen, at least the parts of it not soaked in blood.

Olivia moaned. "Light save me, they need healing. More than any of the others. But I have nothing. I have nothing left."

Nex fumbled at the clasp of his belt one-handed until he finally pulled it free. He handed NexTaeja over to the woman. "Beware, using it," he mumbled. "The sword is . . . insane."

The auburn-haired cleric stared at the weapon hungrily. "I've never been this close to it. But I could always feel its power, even from hundreds of yards away." Olivia reached down and carefully touched the hilt with one long, slender finger. She arched her back, throwing her head back with a gasp, and Nex perceived the power flowing into her.

It was the last thing he was aware of before his trance took hold of him.

. . . . .

When Nex came to himself the battle was apparently over. As far as his second sight extended there was no sign of anything but destroyed undead. He was laying in a tent near the mouth of the box canyon with other wounded, while out among the devastation of the battlefield survivors were dragging the fallen Sons of Lothar to a cleared area where they were laying them out in rows.

He had to have been out for a while, if the wounded had already been tended to and the survivors were rested enough from the horror of the battle to begin gathering the dead. Only they weren't going about it the right way.

He pushed to his feet, wobbly with no power supporting him. His body felt far weaker than it should have, probably as a consequence of the rigors he'd put it through, not least of which had been pumping his power through it for hours on end. Logically he'd been doing that for such a long time that such limited exposure was probably not a problem, but it was hard to acknowledge that when he felt so weak.

One of the first things he noticed was that NexTaeja wasn't at his hip. He vaguely remembered giving it to Olivia, a holy relic for her to draw power from. Obviously she hadn't seen fit to return it. A quick inspection of his possessions showed him nothing else was missing, although he had fewer torpedoes than he'd expected. Unsurprising, considering how heavily he'd relied on them after emptying his reserves.

After a moment standing to clear his head he hobbled out of the tent. Behind him he could hear a few of the conscious wounded murmuring.

" . . . was worse off'n me when he came in, but he's walking away easy as you please."

"I sawed him fightin' with bones sticking out a him, I did. Woulda been worse for us if'n he'd not been here."

"Yeah, if he weren't a part of it we wouldn't be either. Don't ye be forgetting who it was brung us here."

"Don't matter at this point, do it? Nothin' matters."

Any further talk was muffled by the entry flap closing.

A few fires burned around the canyon, the few evergreen trees and shrubs filling it all cleared out for fuel. Soldiers huddled around them, some eating but most just soaking in warmth. A few were sleeping right on the ground.

But few. So few. As far as he could see within the range of his second sight there were less than eighty men still living, to judge by the warmth they gave off. That meant more than two-thirds of the army had perished in the battle. Logistically that was an extraordinary stroke of luck, considering what they'd faced, but it still displeased him.

The battle for Icecrown hadn't even begun yet. They couldn't afford such losses.

"The Lady Olivia," he snapped at one of the soldiers staggering by hauling a potful of snow to be boiled. The man grunted and pointed to one of the individual tents. Nex made his way over, noting the absence of the woman's guardian at his usual place. Janis was inside the tent, sharing furs with the priestess but both fully clothed. NexTaeja was belted at her waist.

He pushed inside, shoving the monk back down as the man rose in a flash. Janis sported several bandages, including one wrapped tightly around his left thigh. "I won't ask you to wake her," Nex whispered, "but I want my sword."

Janis flushed. "She didn't steal it. She was using it right up to the moment she collapsed, and then I brought her here without thinking of it."

"I assumed something of the sort. I'll have it back now."

After a grudging moment the monk leaned over and gently shook Olivia's shoulder. She made no reply, so he carefully unbuckled the belt and slipped it from around her waist, careful not to jolt her. "That is a unique relic you possess," the man whispered. "I would charge you to use it for good."

"The sword itself would disagree with that charge. Did she have any trouble with it?" Confused, Janis shook his head. "Rest well, then." Nex slipped back out of the tent, buckling the belt around his waist as he went.

He made his way over to the central fire, where a few women were stewing broth for the wounded, cutting in some tubers they'd evidently found in the area. As far as Nex could see the tubers weren't poisonous, so he accepted a bowl and settled down to eat.

As he did he noted the absence of the horses from their picket lines, and turned his second sight to finding them. He'd wondered why horses hadn't been used in the battle, since being mounted offered so many advantages, not the least of which were mobility and weight to a charge. But as he extended his second sight he almost immediately saw the reason why.

The mounts were all saddled and ready to go, but every single one of them was packed against the back of the canyon, as far as they could go without climbing vertical stone. Every time the breeze carried the cold scent of the undead up to them they screamed in fear. A few had been trampled, and one looked to have fallen off a rise and broken two of its legs, adding its own pain to the din. Nex was surprised no one had put the poor beast out of its misery yet; apparently the battle hadn't been over for as long as he thought.

Likely Marbrand had taken one look at the terrified animals and ruled out using them in combat. A wise decision. Nex just counted it fortunate none of the undead had gotten to them and slaughtered all their mounts.

Perhaps in the future, with training, the horses could be inured to their fear of undead, at least enough to go against them in battle. But Nex didn't expect it to happen soon. Still it was worth a try. He cleared his throat, and across the fire from him Jocal, dozing, jerked awake. "Bring the horses down and picket them by the pile of undead."

Jocal rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, then stared at him in shock. "Are you mad? They'll kick each other to death, and their handlers too."

"They're going to be useless to us if they bolt at the first sign of undead. Picket them by the undead, see if they get used to it."

"It's a cruel way to treat animals that have been faithful to us."

Nex frowned. "Cruel or not, their only hope of survival lies in going forward same as us. Do it." As the man pushed to his feet, scowling, Nex added. "And butcher that horse with the broken legs while you're at it. We could do with some fresh meat."

As he resumed eating he was aware that the women were staring at him. Ah, yes, horses were useful animals like dogs and cats, and because of that many humans became attached to them. Their revulsion was for the notion of eating what was essentially a pet. About the most foolish example of sentiment he'd ever seen. He lifted his head to face them. "Where's Marbrand?"

. . . . .

He coughed as he came awake, spitting up blood. Damn, that was probably a bad sign.

Though he was warm and laying on something soft he felt acutely uncomfortable, mostly from weakness and pain, but even so better than he thought he should have. Considering that his last thought before falling unconscious had been a prayer to the Light to convey his soul safely to the world beyond.

"Finally awake?"

Groaning softly, Marbrand turned his head to the pallet next to his in the large tent. The Castaway lay there, pale but otherwise in seemingly good humor. "What happened?"

"To be honest I'm a bit foggy on that myself. Apparently they dug us out of a pile of Scourge corpses. According to Lady Olivia, they found me sprawled atop you. Olivia thinks it's because I fell defending your body."

"You have a different reason?"

The Castaway's smile broadened. "Of course . . . I couldn't bear to be parted from you. In life we were together, in death we were not separated."

Marbrand coughed, spitting blood onto the furs covering him. "Do you take nothing seriously, Castaway?"

"I assume that's your way of thanking me. And no, I don't take "nothing" seriously. I take one thing very seriously. Saire." The elf sagged back onto his blankets, his strength giving out. "But don't tell her that, okay?" he whispered. "That's not the sort of advantage you want to give the woman you love."

Marbrand gave himself a moment to contemplate just how screwed up elf romance must be, if they considered letting your loved one know how important she was to you a bad thing. "If you felt that way why did I find you assassinating Kanviel rather than by her side?"

The Castaway shrugged his blankets. "Pragmatics. Saire was safe in the middle of a group of soldiers. I knew I could do more for her eliminating the Scourge's leaders and affecting the overall battle than just cutting down undead here and there at her side." He grinned again. "When you love someone, sometimes you have to let her go."

Marbrand coughed again, cringing at the agony in his chest. "Well you're right, I do need to thank you. You probably saved my life, since I would never have survived Kanviel with a sword through my knee."

"Yes, and you came even closer to not surviving when the sword came out and you started filling your boot with blood."

"How _did_ you manage to sneak your way through the undead to get at Kanviel, anyway?"

The elf's smile turned a touch sinister. "Very, very carefully."

Before Marbrand could reply to that the tent flap swept aside and Nex limped in, followed by Havel, Alvin, Jocal, and Blackfinger. "Good, you're awake," the young lord said, hobbling over. A few of the wounded he passed shied away. Others simply glared.

Marbrand tried to lift himself on his elbows, then gave up the effort, coughing weakly. "What's going on out there?"

Nex turned to face Blackfinger, and after a reluctant pause the big man answered. "The Scourge forces have been completely destroyed. They fought us to the last, which is to be expected. We're down to seventy-seven men. Our losses include the undead mage, Bobbulus."

Marbrand grimaced. More than half the army gone, and a mage among them. Even victory tasted sour with that sort of news. "Olivia?"

"Sleeping," Nex said. "Her efforts saved a lot of lives, but as it stands we have nearly as many too wounded to stand as we have on their feet. Few escaped unscathed."

_No one escaped this battle unscathed._ Assuming any of them got home, Marbrand was certain it would come into their nightmares for the rest of their lives. But he said none of that.

The Castaway stirred. "Saire?"

"Sleeping, same as when you last asked," Alvin answered. He turned to Marbrand. "The battle's over. The question is what do we do now?"

Marbrand turned his gaze to Nex, hoping the young lord would say they'd paid enough and could go home. But Nex said nothing, was in fact perfectly still. He held back a sigh. "Now that the battle is over, we must return to testing all the soldiers in search of Cultists." Marbrand gravely met the eye of everyone there. "Before I slew Kanviel, he claimed that a Cultist infiltrating the Sons of Lothar had spread plague to the elves. I cannot say whether that Cultist then returned to our army, or if he rejoined the Scourge. But we must prevent them from trying any such thing to us."

"I agree, but not completely," Havel said calmly. "With vigilance the Cultists hidden in our midst can be prevented from mischief. But a lesson must be learned from the elves at the Pass. Our first priority, before anything else, will need to be burning the dead."

Alvin shuddered. "Agreed. I don't want to fight these elves twice."

Nex finally spoke up. "Are any of you familiar with searing skeletons?"

Marbrand glanced over. "Beg pardon?"

"They're a common occurrence in cities where fire has ravaged all the buildings, either set by the Scourge or by the defenders. In any case while fire will definitely kill an undead, and you can burn them down to the bones, those bones can still be reanimated. What's more, those that die by fire remember that heat, and they can call upon it. Searing skeletons can immolate themselves at will. They are also immune to all but the hottest flames."

Blackfinger cursed. "Are you saying those bodies we burned in Lordaeron and at the beach could come back as something even worse?"

"Perhaps, if a Scourge reanimator wished to take the time."

"Why are you bringing this up at all, then?" Marbrand demanded.

"A precaution, is all. After we burn the bodies, burn them all, we should go in and make sure every joint is separated from every other one, and all the pieces are scattered far from each other."

"That could take more time than we have," Havel protested.

"A few hours, to prevent having to face the same army hitting us from behind as we march up the pass?"

Marbrand reluctantly nodded. "All right. Dispose of the corpses. But meanwhile I want everyone tested. I won't risk further Cultist sabotage."

"The men would do better for having their leader in sight," Nex observed.

Alvin turned a glare at the young lord. "Gods be damned, man, he's in a sickbed! He barely has the strength to speak!"

Nex turned to face Havel. The undead priest laughed sourly. "Do I look up to that sort of healing? I'm tapped out, have been for hours. Although . . ." He turned a speculative look down to Nex's sword, the diamonds twinkling with diffused light in the dim tent.

"Forget it." Nex rested a hand protectively on that hilt, then flinched as if struck in the face by a snowball. Havel cackled and left the tent. A moment later Nex did the same, and Blackfinger was quick to follow. The big man still didn't seem himself, but that was only to be expected.

"Rest, sir," Alvin said. Jocal patted him on the knee, and then those two left as well.

Marbrand sighed. "Guess we rest, then-" the Castaway was already snoring. With another sigh he shut his eyes, coughed again to clear his lungs, and after the agony faded let himself sink into sleep.

. . . . .

The day had gone to night as their battered army struggled to recover. The fires had been fed until they blazed at the mouth of the canyon, weary men stumbling to bring bodies to toss onto the flames. At one fire that had burned out a handful of women were picking over the bones with rocks in hand, shattering joints and tossing the remains in all directions.

Marbrand was hunched by the camp's smaller fire, suffering through his wounds as he struggled to provide a presence for his men. Olivia was at one end of the camp, testing the surviving men one at a time for cultists. Saire remained sleeping, and Havel had disappeared. Nex had as well, although that was no surprise; the mood in the camp was ugly, and more than a little of it was directed at the young lord. In fact, others around the fire were openly complaining, morale lower than Marbrand had ever seen in an army, and he'd been with men who suffered through horrible events and betrayals.

He knew he should say something, try to turn this tide, but he couldn't think of anything that would help. Best to let them talk themselves out of their anger, or at least into sullen silence. Still, he listened.

"It was bad enough, is all I'm saying. Miserable cold, marching til we drop every damn day, on short rations and supplies limited, knowing we're fighting damned walking dead. But now this. Going against our own allies!"

"Wasn't really much our allies," one of Nex's recruits interrupted grimly.

The first continued as if he hadn't heard. "And what do we get for battling an army that should've been helping us? Lost almost two-thirds of our friends, and for all we know they may pick themselves right back up and start hacking at us too! And then we learn folks've been smothering us in our sleep. Not only do we not know if we can trust the man next to us, but now our leaders're good as telling us _they_ don't trust us. Us who've been dying for their purposes all this time."

That complaint was easy enough to explain, given the glares turned to where Olivia worked. The damn fools, they should be thanking her for protecting them from treachery.

"Taint right," Kyle muttered. "None of this is right. But what do we do aside from keep on?"

"Keep on to what? Until we come on that elf and naga army and find them all undead too? We barely survived this battle, and that one'll be hopeless fer sure."

"We'll fight through, you'll see." Kyle's eyes darted towards Marbrand, then shied away. "You'll see."

"If I'm seeing stupid like you I don't want to see. I'd rather be eyeless as Old Blindfold himself. Face it, boy, we're all dead men walking."

Kyle abruptly stood and stalked away from the fire, and the others fell silent. It might have ended there except Alvin plopped down on a rock beside the others and stretched his hands out. "I hate murmuring among the rank and file," he growled, "but you lot are right. We should turn around now."

"Should we?"

Marbrand twisted around, startled, as did everyone else. Nex had appeared out of nowhere, crouching a short distance away. His blindfolded face was eerily still.

Alvin flinched slightly, but he didn't back down. "We should, and you know it."

"You're awfully generous, telling me what I know." Something about the young lord's flat tone chilled Marbrand. Out of the shadows Castaway slipped like a ghost, close to Nex, although if he was with the man or just happened to be passing near was uncertain.

Alvin's face was dark. "More generous than I should be. This is all your fault, warlock. You swore to save as many of us as you could, but instead look at us! You're a damn oathbreaker, but you expect us to keep our oaths? We should never have even come here!"

Nex's face remained impassive, and Marbrand wondered if he would ignore this insult as he had others. To everyone's surprise it was Castaway who came to the young lord's defense. "You're talking like a fool, Alvin."

The scout's face darkened further. "Stay out of this, Castaway."

Castaway smiled widely, and somehow that too seemed off. "No, I don't think I will. You're my friend, and it's a friend's job to tell you when you're being a jackass." A few angry growls erupted from the others. Castaway ignored them. "His fault, you claim? Before the battle did you expect him to say "oh, there's the enemy we came to fight. Guess it's time to head home."

Marbrand snorted, amused in spite of the situation. Alvin turned a glare his way. "You think this is funny, sir? Well I don't. I watched half my scouts pulled from a ledge and torn apart in a sea of undead. I say we've paid our dues, and it's time to collect and go home."

To his further surprise Castaway's hand moved to rest on his sword. "I'll say it again, Alvin, you're a damned fool. I was watching the battle, and Lokiv killed more than eighty spellcasters. Eighty. If they were mere novices that would be incredible, but these were Scourge necromancers and skilled elf mages reanimated but losing none of their power. You say he broke his promise? We would _all _be dead right now without him."

"We would all in Outland without him!" Alvin snarled back. Castaway just smiled. "You respect him so much, elf? But you call him lokiv?" In spite of the words the retort sounded weak, and as if realizing it Alvin turned and stalked away.

Marbrand moved away as well, troubled. He'd heard his share of naysayers and doomcallers. But he'd never seen men as a group in such low spirits, and morale barely came into the picture anymore. He'd never seen an army like this after a victory. There was no boasting of their prowess, no sense of pride after what they'd just achieved. Sure losses had been heavy, but everyone was acting as if they'd lost badly instead of defeating a force four times their size.

If they were in such despair they couldn't even muster up the will to burn their own dead without the threat of them raising to spur them on, if they were so dispirited that they sought for everything wrong in the world, how was he ever going to get them marching up the Pass?

. . . . .

The music came from well away from the clearing and the protection of the sentries, but from where Alvin walked his patrol he could hear it faintly. Perhaps at some other time he would've suspected a trap, or remained on his course for duty, but this night he allowed himself to follow the sounds.

It was not a proper song, he could tell. A series of notes, harshly sounded and poorly timed, rising and falling with some haunting quality, something that made his heart feel hollow, like the feeling that came at the end of a good story when you knew there was no more, or like watching a friend say farewell.

Perhaps it wasn't the music that stirred those feelings, but that he was attributing what was in his heart to the song.

In a clearing between thick trees he found the boy, Ilinar, perched on a rotting log. He was playing a crude woodwind flute, about the simplest one could make. And yet in spite of their roughness each note piping from the boy's pursed lips was as pure and sweet as the waters of a mountain spring.

As when Alvin had last seen him, the boy was covered in blood, now caked and cracking, flaking off with each small movement. There was something horrifying about such innocent music coming from this boy who'd slaughtered dozens of Cultists.

Alvin stepped forward, into the clearing, and almost immediately the music stopped, leaving a deep silence. He nodded in approval. "Playing music, but you still sensed me coming up behind you."

Ilinar didn't turn. "I smelled your-" he cut off, and Alvin wondered with disquiet if he'd been going to say blood. Gods, what was this boy? Only Nex could have such an uncanny tagalong.

"I didn't know you played," he finally said when the boy continued to say nothing.

Ilinar turned, eyes gleaming cold in the moonlight. "I didn't," he answered quietly. "But sleep comes less easy than it once did. The music makes for an idle amusement."

"It must have idly amused you for hours on end, that you play so well."

For a long while the boy didn't answer, staring up at the sky above. Though he wore no coat or cloak he did not shiver, and his flesh was pale and cold in the moonlight. "I've heard it said music soothes the savage beast," Ilinar finally said. "That it stills the dark prowler in the shadows. The keening wailer which knows but one word, and repeats it unceasing. Blood."

"Blood," Alvin replied flatly. After the horrors of the battle he'd thought little could unnerve him, but the strangeness of this child that had once been fairly normal did so. What had Nex created here?

"Blood," the boy solemnly affirmed. "Blood. Blood blood blood." His eyes seemed to glow a cold blue, more than the moonlight could account for.

Alvin found he had no answer.

For long minutes silence reigned. Ilinar lifted the flute up to his lips as if to play a tune, but the instrument hovered soundlessly there. Finally Alvin felt the urge to speak, as if with all the wrong in the world he thought he could at least turn one twisted boy straight once more. "It may seem delightful to stand inviolate to the icy winds of Northrend, but I would be wary. There is a joy in warmth. In food, in wine. You may not realize how much until you no longer enjoy them. And you may find that which replaces it is less fine than you had supposed."

The boy went still as a statue, a cold anger radiating from him. "What would you know about that?"

"Only that I've fought the undead and you sharing those traits makes me uncomfortable."

As if that were a challenge Ilinar smiled wide, teeth flashing in the moonlight. "Uncomfortable, old man? I boiled the blood of thirty-two living people not twenty-four hours ago, but sitting here without my coat makes you _uncomfortable_?"

Alvin shivered, and on an impulse spoke. "Come away with us." He listened to the words escape him with a sense of horror. He was speaking of desertion, to _Nex's_ boy?

Ilinar's smile turned contemptuous. "No surprise you speak of running. I see your fear . . . it only surprises me you haven't left already."

"Come away with us," he said again. "Escape the poison of your master and live a real life, boy."

The boy turned away and lifted the flute to his lips once more, but paused before beginning to play. "Everything I want is here."

Alvin walked away with the sound of music pounding in his ears. It no longer possessed beauty, only eeriness.

Gerol was waiting with the other sentries, all volunteers for this very reason, and many of their companions who'd slipped from the camp. Alvin was surprised to see them; he hadn't realized it was so late.

"Ready?" the veteran growled.

Alvin glanced back toward the scarce-heard music, then nodded. "Quickly. Who knows what the warlock can sense."

. . . . .

The mood was quiet when Nex emerged from his tent the next morning. Oddly enough, before falling into his sleep/trance he'd detected a great deal of unrest in the camp, people unable to sleep. He, on the other hand, had quickly succumbed to weariness. Perhaps simple exhaustion had eased his way, or that the horrors of the battle that haunted the others were little compared to his past.

Everyone was huddled together near the fire, tense. And as he approached all eyes were on him. Full of fear, but also anger and defiance.

That is, everyone still in the camp; many soldiers were gone, patches of flat snow and ice where their tents had been. Including most of those who'd been on sentry duty.

"Where is everyone?" he asked quietly. No one looked at him, no one answered. "I'll find the answer for myself if you say nothing."

Marbrand cleared his throat and laboriously stood, still weak. At his side Lady Olivia offered him a supporting hand. "Gone, my Lord."

"Gone?"

"Fled in the night."

Nex made a show of looking around. "There are thirty-four people missing. That's close to half the army." Marbrand looked away and Nex nodded; that was about what he'd expected. He searched for the trail with his second sight and found it easy to follow; straight south. He turned to follow it.

"What are you doing?" Olivia demanded.

Nex paused. "Going to bring them back."

Marbrand's voice was soft when he spoke, anguished. "And if they don't come?"

Nex contemplated the silent, fearful group watching him. "You all know what I'll do. I swore to you months ago I'd do it." He began to follow the trail once more.

"Don't."

Once again he paused, looking over his shoulder. "I beg your pardon?"

Marbrand's face was pale, stricken with pain and grief. "Don't punish them for this. They fought bravely, they went as far as they had the courage to go. Who could fault them for turning back now? They didn't sign up for this."

"And what did they sign up for?" Nex turned back. "Some signed up for gold; I was generous in my offer. Some for revenge. Some for honor, or the chance at adventure. Some for the sake of imperiled humanity. But whatever they signed up for, _they all signed_. They made their oath to follow me, they gave me their lives. And I told them if they deserted they would die. They may not keep their promises, but I keep mine."

The burned knight's voice gained strength. "What about your promise to seem them home alive?"

That was a truly unjust accusation, and Nex felt a flare of anger. "I swore I would do what I could. And I did; nearly nine hundred Scourge enemies to our two hundred and sundry, and we gained victory. Will you thank me with baseless accusations and slinking away in the night like cravens?"

"Please," Marbrand said, and his defiance was broken.

"Pack up camp and make for the Pass. I'll meet you after I've brought the others back." Nex turned and stalked away. Behind him no one moved to do as he'd ordered.

. . . . .

After he was gone nobody spoke, nobody moved. Everyone was looking to him, but what could he say, what could he do?

Olivia rested a hand on his arm. "He's going to do it, isn't he? He's going to massacre thirty-four people he marched beside, fought beside, ate beside."

Marbrand drew in a ragged breath. "It's easy to get the wrong impression about him. He never responds to insults or challenges, never tries to assert control. Looking at that, you might think he's a moderate and peaceable person. But when he has cause he'll act without hesitation or sentiment. We may be fooled into believing he's our companion, but to him we're nothing but tools to be used, and if we don't act to his satisfaction he'll discard us."

Her eyes were dark with grief. "How can anyone be so utterly selfish?"

"Not selfish." Marbrand looked south, to where his people had fled. "Not selfish, just utterly pragmatic. He said it himself, purpose before pride. Always."

"But why does he even bother?" Squire Jocal protested. "A couple dozen scrawny, frightened recruits? You saw him yesterday. If he wanted to he could slaughter us all and walk away."

Marbrand lowered his voice so the others had to strain to hear. "Because they gave their word."

. . . . .

The trail was easy to follow. The deserters had taken a dozen horses and sleds, and their tracks cut through snow and ice as close to straight south as could be managed. But for all the head start they'd gained Nex didn't take long to catch them; he pushed strength into his limbs for the task, and moved at best speed. He even went so far as to remove the cast on his leg, ignoring the twinges as he ran naturally for the first time in over a month.

When he caught up to them he didn't come up from behind. There were scouts watching for just that. They might even have seen him before they came in range of his second sight. But in any case he circled wide around, getting in front of the group of deserters. Many were women, and most of the older recruits were there. Even a few veterans. He found a suitable place to wait, letting them come to him, and when they'd come close enough he simply stood and let his presence be known.

Several screamed at the sight of him, and many drew their weapons; then, as if realizing the madness of that, threw them away in terror.

Nex regarded them silently for a time, then gestured north. "We're going to the Pass. All of us."

There were a few groans, many of the women and even some of the men were weeping. But one of the deserters stepped forward. He was one of Marbrand's men from Outland. "Pardon, m'lord, but we're going south."

Nex turned his full attention on the man, noting how those around the poor fool stepped back, leaving him alone. "Gerol, is it? You signed your name, Gerol. You swore an oath. Would you be thought an oathbreaker and a coward?"

Gerol didn't back down. "You can think o' me how you like, I'm going home. I'm not going to be like one o' them elves, standing frozen in torment for all eternity!"

Nex lunged forward, closing the distance between them in seconds and grabbing the man's head. Gerol tried to shy away but was too slow, caught by surprise. As soon as he had a grip Nex pushed into the man's mind, digging deep without trying to find anything. The deserter screamed in pain but was otherwise unharmed.

Shaken, Nex released him and backed away. "What'd you do to me?" Gerol demanded fearfully.

"I tested to see if you were a Cultist. Because only a Cultist would speak such treachery." But he _wasn't_. How was it possible that a normal man, let alone one of Marbrand's honorable Sons of Lothar, would take this course? It was wrong on every level Nex could imagine. It would make every deserter's life pointless, because they'd betrayed all trust and forsaken anything which gave those lives meaning.

"Ain't no Cultist. But ain't going back neither!"

Nex deliberately held out his hand, letting darkness gather in his palm. "Before we sailed for Northrend I promised that anyone I caught deserting would die. What would you prefer, deserter? Certain death at my hands, or a chance at victory and an honorable homecoming when our task is done?"

The man was shaking, the blood draining from his face, but still his shoulders stayed square. "Go ahead'n do it, m'lord. Burn my bones like you're burnin' the others, scatter 'em about so's I can't come back. Might e'en be a mercy compared to keeping on. I seen horrors enough for ten lifetimes already."

Nex patiently waited for the man to finish speaking. "Are you certain of that, Gerol? I will not ask again."

"I'll go not a step farther north."

"Then die a true coward, knowing you chose death over honor." Nex flung the shadowbolt. Gerol didn't even try to dodge as it struck his chest, tearing its way into him. He convulsed once and dropped, going still.

Nex again swept his head around to take in the crowd. "We're going to the Pass. All of us."

Another man stepped forward. His usual smile had become grim purpose. Nex had known he was there, hiding among the others, but he hadn't expected him to step forward. "Your cowardice finally overcome your shame, Alvin?"

The scout walked forward to stand directly over Gerol's body. "He speaks for me as well."

Nex felt a moment of sadness. "I wouldn't have expected you to betray your friends. I thought you would die for Marbrand, if not for the cause."

Alvin spat in his direction. "People who speak of suffering and dying for the cause rarely do much of that themselves. For honor I spent eleven years an exile on Outland, faithful to a man who betrayed us so a bunch of upright goats could feel a bit better about themselves. I love Marbrand, by the Light that's forsaken me I love him, but I'll go no farther."

"Then you'll die as your friend did."

"So be it. No man should have to suffer what we suffered on Outland, only to come here and suffer even worse." The scout's bitter voice grew louder, more certain, ringing powerfully over the group. "We are going to _die_ in Northrend! We are going to waste our lives accomplishing nothing and spend eternity in torment and slavery. So kill me now, Nex whom all the elves call Lokiv, filth. Burn my body and scatter my bones, and let me have my peace."

Nex was silent for a moment after that, shaken by the man's sense of purpose. His desire for freedom extended to being willing to sacrifice his own life to have it. For all Nex's own talk of the same, had he ever followed through? "Do any of you feel differently than Alvin?" he asked quietly. "Step away now and return with me, or die."

No one moved.

Nex stepped closer, preparing to do just that, to rain fire down on them and kill them all. He saw the certainty of death in Alvin's eyes, the peace that filled his posture. And he loosed the spell.

Screams rang through the air, first of terror and then of surprise. The burning rocks rained down behind the deserters, touching not a one.

When the spell ended everyone turned to stare at him in stunned disbelief. "You are all dead," Nex said coldly. "If any back at the Pass should learn otherwise I will be forced to kill them. Go now, and quickly, if you would save the lives of the people you betrayed."

For another stunned moment the deserters stood. Then they turned and stumbled south, some still weeping. Alvin was last to turn away. "I didn't think this sort of mercy was in you."

"If you were resigned to die before returning no purpose would have been served by killing you. I regret Gerol's death, but it may have shaken the others into returning. Perhaps would have, if not for you."

Alvin smiled bitterly. "Will you kill me for that?"

"I just explained how purposeless it would be. Go now, deserter. Nova will grieve your death, as will your more faithful brothers."

The scout's face spasmed with too many emotions to note in such a short time, and then he turned and jogged after the others.

Nex moved to the circle of devastation he'd created and, in a process spanning several grim minutes, burned the ground until the mud was glass. Anyone who saw it would be certain that nothing remained of the deserters. Perhaps they would even envy them. Then he turned north.

Montfere rose out of hiding in snow several hundred yards away, eyes cold and dead. "You're weak after all," he said flatly.

"They didn't come after I killed one. What purpose in kill them all?"

"You should have killed two, then three, then four. You should have killed them one by one until their courage broke and they returned."

"It wasn't courage that made them run, but fear. And fear never breaks once a person has decided to embrace it."

The boy's eyes flashed with rage. "Don't you understand? You just let half our army run away! What good will those remaining do now?"

"Whatever good they can." Nex walked past the boy and on for several feet, then stopped. Montfere hadn't moved to follow. "Boy, if anyone at camp learns I let them go, they'll think it safe to flee as well without repercussions. I trust you're smart enough to keep quiet about this." Montfere made no reply, and Nex continued on to camp.

Everyone was waiting when he arrived, standing tense in a huddle. "Well?" Marbrand demanded.

"There's a ten yard circle of ground a half hour south of here that's been melted to glass. The deserters are gone."

There were cries of grief and rage, weeping, soldiers falling to their knees in weary hopelessness. Olivia was nodding in grieving approval, while Janis had knelt to pray. Blackfinger looked dead still standing, and Marbrand's face had gone gray. Even Nova had lost his usual lazy smile.

"The end is near," Nex said over the noise. "Make no mistake, the only way any of us is going to make it out is by going forward. We have but to push up this Pass to the Glacier and watch the Frozen Throne shatter. Then it will be over and we will all be free."

Marbrand carefully unbuckled his sword and hurled it at Nex's feet. Then he turned and stalked to his tent. The others looked on in silence, hatred and despair warring in their eyes.

Nex followed. The man tried to bar him from ducking inside but he forcefully pushed through. Immediately Marbrand caught him by the throat and shoved him against the center pole, showing surprising strength for all the severity of his wounds. "Damn you!" he snarled.

Nex offered no resistance. "I did what I told them I'd do. If I hadn't the entire army would've melted away by nightfall."

The burned knight pulled him away from the pole and slammed him back against it. It cracked and nearly broke. "Those were my friends! By the gods, Alvin." Then the strength seemed to go out of him. He released Nex and fell onto his cot, clawing at his face in grief.

Nex weighed options, then sighed. "This army can't function if their commander refuses to. Our purpose isn't done yet."

"Damn our purpose!" the man moaned. "Damn my honor! We could have all left back when I promised we would and everyone would be alive. Alvin, Gerol, Itkain, Cavil, Darvan, Isaac, Marek, Danis, Theresa, Fand-"

"Don't damn your honor or start a litany of the dead just yet. For your sake listen to what I say and keep quiet about it." No response. Nex checked with his second sight for eavesdroppers then lowered his voice. "Only one man has died for desertion, and his death is regrettable."

Marbrand looked up slowly, eyes red but tearless. "What?"

"There is a burned patch of ground to the south. It's for the benefit of those who remain, so that they think I killed the others. Gerol I did kill, because he spoke for the others and I'd hoped his death would turn them back. When it didn't I let them go." The burned knight merely stared at him, uncomprehending. "I would not have told you this but I need you to lead. Make me the enemy if you wish, let everyone hate me if they must, but lead. And tell no one else about this. _No one_."

"And if I do?"

Nex turned away. "Then I'll kill them, and you." He pushed through the flaps, leaving Marbrand behind to think whatever thoughts came to him.

. . . . .

An hour later they set out up the Pass. Those who had been poorly equipped before had taken weapons and armor from the dead elves, and the Cultist camp and the remains of Kanviel's camp both had plentiful supplies. For the last leg of their march they were better supplied than they'd been at any other point.

Their morale was also so low it was an effort to chivvy the soldiers into breaking camp after he finally emerged from his tent. The will to fight had gone out of everyone, and Marbrand couldn't think of how to restore it. He wasn't sure he wanted to.

He wasn't sure he could even find it in himself.


	22. Up the Pass

Chapter Twenty-One

Up the Pass

There was no reason for him to be up on this peak, barely two feet across where he stood overlooking the frozen range of the Crown of the World which dominated his second sight in every direction. In fact, it was probably foolish to select such a precarious perch, given the danger of what he was about to do.

But necessary. Three days up Angrathar Pass there was no other way he could get distance between himself and his remaining men. Going further up the pass, or back down, would only serve to attract enemies that would naturally continue until they fell upon the humans. And Marbrand's weak, fragmented force wasn't prepared for another direct confrontation, not yet anyway.

One thing he was sure of was that what he intended _would_ draw enemies. Better they be drawn into the mountains, away from his soldiers.

NexTaeja hung from an outcropping ten feet below, well away from him. He would have to test wearing the holy sword while attempting this at some point, but the first try was absolutely the wrong time for it.

Nova's surprising loyalty was not unwelcome, but the man had no right to speak, either to condemn or exonerate him. The truth of the matter was that Nex _had_ broken his word. As long as there was any avenue he had not explored, he had failed to protect the soldiers he'd sworn to see home. More than half the casualties of the battle had occurred after he'd fallen unconscious, as the frantic humans continued to wage their war of attrition against the Scourge forces. Had he been stronger, had he used what was available to him, more would have lived, and those who lived might have had the hope to press on.

It was a hard realization to come to, but a necessary one. Without it the power that bound him and defined him would never have allowed him to break his own oath to slay any deserters. But that he had by neglect broken his oath to them, their own oath to him became invalidated and they were free to desert if they willed. A justification, perhaps, but with the treacherous powers he served what else was there?

The only downside was that nothing prevented the others from similarly deserting, and he had no constraint to kill them for doing so. If he wasn't careful he could end up hastening to catch up to his master with no army at his back.

So Nex stood, breathing deeply, feeling natural strength flow through him, his body responding favorably to food, healthy exertion, and rest. Then he drew upon his power, feeling the metamorphosis it tried to work in him, and instead of holding that unnatural change at bay he embraced it, feeding it in increments as he tested his limits.

Powers far distant felt his attempts like a beacon, and mindless minions were sent to seek it out to sate their masters' curiosity. By the time they arrived the young demon hunter on his mountain peak would be long gone.

None were even close enough to hear his screams.

. . . . .

Something strange was going on among the casters.

The elf mage, Saire, had been sitting at the campfire eating when it began, but then she'd screamed, quickly cutting it short. Face pale, she'd heaved her lover the Castaway to his feet and dragged him to their tent, obviously intending to find something else to occupy her mind from what so distressed her.

The lady Olivia was standing at the western side of the camp, staring straight through the rocky incline there to some distant point. She hadn't moved for almost a half hour, save a subtle, distressed rocking back and forth while she clutched at her belly with both hands. Janis was pacing behind her, the least calm Lewis had ever seen the monk.

Havel, on the other hand, was in his undead camp a fair distance from the main encampment, crouched near his undead porters cackling into the sky. The sound set the hairs at the back of Lewis's neck on end as he approached, and he almost wished the silent, malevolent bulk of the mage Bobbulus was still around, looming in his usual place at the other end of the eerie camp. If for no other reason than so he wouldn't be alone with an obviously unstable undead priest.

But as soon as Havel became aware of him his laughter cut off, sudden as death, and the undead came to his feet almost at attention. "Officer Blackfinger," he said politely, "how may I help you?"

Lewis took a step back in spite of himself, even more unnerved by this sudden reversal. "If now's a bad time-"

"No no!" the undead said, frantically motioning him deeper into the camp. "Please, please, anything to distract me."

Lewis reluctantly stepped further into the camp. "I hate to bother you, but I have a problem I'm loathe to raise to Lady Olivia."

"Of course, of course," Havel said, nodding. "She would be most unlikely to be sympathetic to a man's troubles, I'm sure. Are you having trouble achieving tumescence? Irritable bowels?"

"No!" Lewis said, embarrassed. "I just, there's some people you don't want to look weak in front of, complain to."

Havel cackled, but it was his usual one. "Of course, my friend, of course. What afflicts you?"

Lewis hesitated, reluctant now that he was finally faced with it. "I'm, uh, having trouble sleeping at night."

The undead nodded sympathetically. "A most common malady in the camp these days. And good you came to me, for priestly skills can only offer so much aid with troubles of the heart and mind, unless of course you wish me to try to heal your mind psychically? I'm not unskilled in that field, although it is not without risks."

"No!" he said again, repulsed by the idea of this creature rooting through his head.

"Fair enough," Havel said, twisting his pallid gray lips into a ghastly grimace of musing. "Which is why it's good you came to me, for where magic fails alchemy can offer solutions. I believe I might be able to help you. A tincture of concentrated dreamsnap and tinvine should do the trick. The mixture is a soporific so strong it can put a rampaging ogre into dreamless sleep."

Lewis shuddered. "Ugh. My policy on medicine is if it goes up the ass the cure is worse than the affliction."

The undead alchemist's lips drew tight in an irritated line. "I said soporific, not suppository, you fool. It means it puts you to sleep."

A somewhat embarrassed silence fell. "Next time how about you use words with fewer syllables and save us both an unpleasant mental image?" Lewis suggested.

"As you wish." Havel rooted around in his pack and came up with a small jar full of some sort of paste, which he handed over. "Coat a finger down to the first knuckle with this and rub it on the roof of your mouth. I suggest you be lying down when you do so, since the effects come on swiftly."

He took the jar, which felt strangely light in his hands. "Are there any harmful side effects to this?"

The undead again laughed, as if that was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "The only one you need to worry about in your current state is that the drugged sleep will be so deep it may be difficult to wake you from it. It will last six hours assuming you don't overdose, so make sure you don't put yourself into blissful slumber on the eave of battle."

Normally that sort of warning would be a deal breaker for him. He was nothing more than a soldier, and a soldier who couldn't respond to risks was a dead man. But he was so miserable and exhausted that he simply nodded. "Thank you." He turned to leave.

"Going so soon?" Havel said behind him, sounding suddenly uneasy. "But we were having such a nice conversation. I was almost able to forget the madman toying with the powers of creation in a most despicable fashion only a few miles away."

A favor done deserved a favor returned, but Lewis was so weary he simply waved over his shoulder and continued on, to his tent and the furs awaiting him. The cold, empty furs.

Still, he barely coated his fingertip with the tincture, hoping that simply dragging him into sleep would let him rest through the night without rendering himself completely helpless.

. . . . .

Two weeks later, Marbrand was beginning to feel like the Pass went on forever.

They'd past valleys, breaks in the mountains heading off east or west or even northeast, and some cutting back south in various directions. But only the Pass offered the best chance of continuing on in the direction of Icecrown.

They didn't travel alone. Almost from the first they passed signs of battle, destroyed undead and slain elves and naga. In the beginning their allies had been vigilant about burning everything, but within less than a week they started passing dead left to lay where they'd fallen. It was obvious that the battle their allies fought pressing up the pass was desperate, and the loss of life was disquieting. He would guess they'd already passed over a thousand slain allies. Combined with Kanviel's men at the Pass that amounted to between a fourth and a fifth of Illidan's army lost, and by all appearances the enemy was growing stronger the closer they came to the end of their march.

Olivia called it a miracle none of the dead left where they lay had risen again to block their way forward. While Marbrand agreed it was fortunate he wasn't willing to cite divine intervention; he'd never seen any sign of such, no matter how desperate humanity's plight became. More likely the Scourge commanders had more pressing concerns than raising troops _behind_ the enemy pushing to destroy their Lich King.

Still, even Olivia had fallen gravely silent when, only a few days ago, they abruptly stopped passing any dead at all, whether allies or enemies. The signs of battle still remained, blood and churned snow and mud, trampled banners and ruined gear left where it lay. But no bodies, and no sign of them having been dragged away.

Even the blindest fool among those who remained could guess what that meant.

They were making good speed, though. With so many slain it meant everyone had a horse to ride now, and even a handful of remounts. They'd elected to leave many of their provisions behind and content themselves with a handful of sleds and what their horses could carry, and so their speed had improved in spite of the steep trails they had to climb, hindered by the snows which fell regularly, especially at night.

The casters remained on edge every evening for a few hours. Their uneasiness coincided with Lord Nex's unexplained disappearances, and Marbrand was all but certain the two events were connected. He'd tried asking the young lord a few roundabout questions, and as Olivia's uneasiness grew had even come out and directly confronted Nex about his activities, but no answers had been forthcoming. Nex was, however, looking more and more haggard by the day, some of the vitality he'd gained draining away. He was beginning to limp on his left leg again as well.

Marbrand didn't like any of it, but there was nothing for it but to press on. The end was almost in sight, that was certain. Jocal, who'd taken over the scouts, or more accurately Ilinar and Castaway who did their best to carry out that role, said that he'd climbed up a high ridge and seen Icecrown Glacier in the distance, rising up in a spiral to a point like a conch shell tilted on end. The news hadn't been greeted with excitement, and no one had climbed up for their own view of the dread place.

On the afternoon of the twenty-sixth day since entering the Pass Jocal came back with Castaway. Ilinar had been exploring a side ravine they'd passed a few hours back. Marbrand waved to the two, and Castaway waved back, but instead of riding down to meet him they stayed where they were, eyes raised upwards. "Come on," Marbrand said, nudging his weary horse to a faster pace. Behind him the small army did the same.

About ten feet from the two scouts he passed far enough by a ridge to the left which had been obstructing his view to see what they were looking at, and he reined in to stare as well.

Black smudges in the distance, circling a particularly high range of peaks in the direction they were traveling. Birds, he assumed, an entire swarm of hundreds of the things.

"What is that?" Marbrand said, squinting into the sky. The others were also reining in their horses to look.

"What is what?" Nex asked, tilting his head. "What are you looking at?"

Jocal snorted. "Why don't you tell us, Master Magiceyes." Nex made no response, and the new head of scouts shrugged. "Seriously, it just looks like a bunch of birds circling to me."

"Carrion birds circling a battlefield?" Blackfinger suggested.

"I wouldn't expect to see crows or vultures so far north." Jocal rubbed at his left eye and looked closer.

"It's not."

Marbrand glanced over to where Ilinar stood beside the scout. "I've heard elves have keener eyes than men, and children keener than the elderly. What do you see, boy?"

Ilinar's eyes danced with a disquieting light. "Several different types of flying creatures, of sizes ranging from quite large to small in comparison. They're not circling anything on the ground, they're circling each other."

Marbrand noted how intently Nex was following the conversation. He didn't have the usual look of concentration that suggested he was seeking hard with his second sight, and Marbrand was suddenly struck with a realization. All those times Nex had asked others to describe what they saw in the distance. His insistence the men keep their eyes to the sky when they'd been tracking Arthas, and his lack of response when Marbrand suggested that if he was so keen on it he should do it himself. Marbrand had always assumed he was just getting other viewpoints, or letting the information come from other mouths rather than his own.

Was it possible Nex's magical sight had a very limited range? That he could no longer see things at a distance the way those with sight could? What if he needed to know from others what he could no longer see himself?

Perhaps, perhaps not. Either way there was no need to tell the others of this speculation, and in the future he'd be better about describing far away things where the young lord could hear. But it was interesting to find out that Nex, who always spoke so bluntly and without reserve about everything, might be tightlipped about his own limitations.

"Why are they circling each other?" Blackfinger said. "Some sort of fight between flocks?"

Ilinar's next words drove all thoughts of Nex out of Marbrand's thoughts. "No. Those aren't birds at all, they're the flying creatures of the Scourge. They're battling Illidan's own aerial forces. We must've finally caught up to the fighting."

. . . . .

They set up camp early that day to be sure everyone had a chance to rest while they could, since there was a very good chance they'd be going into battle tomorrow. Marbrand allowed double rations for dinner, and even let the men broach a few bottles of elvish wine they'd ransacked from Kanviel's camp.

The next day Marbrand set them all to riding rather than alternating riding and walking to spare the horses. The faithful creatures were still terrified by the undead, and he'd rather exhaust them than his men before a battle.

They'd entered into a part of the pass with steep walls to either side, plunging them into shadow except at noon, which hadn't arrived yet. It had to be somewhere between morning and midmorning, but he couldn't yet see the line of sunlight sliding down the wall to his left. It had grown much colder, so much so that a few of the men had drawn out their sleeping furs and blankets to wrap around themselves. The breath of horse and rider alike steamed in the air, as well as mist rising in wisps off the animals' flanks. It shrouded the narrow space in a light fog, making everything behind indistinct from where he rode, while in front the air was unusually clear and streamed across his cheeks in a constant frigid gust, worse than the usual icy wind of the Pass.

Up ahead the trail reached a rise and looked to start downward again, which might be for the better or worse, depending on how the wind blew. Marbrand nudged his weary mount onward towards it, noting how the beast's head drooped in the cold.

Nex nudged his horse up alongside Marbrand's, and he noted how the young lord's gelding seemed almost alarmed, the whites of his eyes showing all the way around. Did the animal sense something of his rider?

"The cold is growing more intense."

Marbrand nodded. "The day is going on toward noon, but it seems to get colder and colder."

"Some of the men are suffering from frostbite. My experience with a normal man's resistance to cold is limited . . . how much more can you take before this becomes crippling?"

"I don't know," Marbrand admitted. "We misjudged. Azeroth is too warm, and Draenor as well. None of us have any experience fighting in such extreme cold. We should have paid attention to military histories throughout the ages that warn of the impossibilities of attacking a fortified foe in the winter."

Nex turned his head to face him. "Beg pardon?"

"The Westsea War, for example, where Gilneas fought Lordaeron for shipping rights at the heart of winter. The southerners besieged Lordaeron City, but King Renaris Menethil marched his army north to Nethport to battle the Gilnean fleet. King Aldan Stonehand decided to march the bulk of his army after Menethil to pin Lordaeron's forces between hammer and anvil. But they weren't ready for such a harsh winter, not like Lordaeron's troops were. In the end it was the cold that defeated them, driving them back with half their army dead of frostbite and not a single battle fought."

Nex was silent for a time, contemplating that. "It's summer here," he finally said. "No need to speak of such things."

"Summer at Icecrown may be as severe as winter in Lordaeron. There may come a time when prosecuting this war becomes impossible."

"Impossible or no we have to keep going. We have the supplies, we have the equipment, we just have to march now. We're almost there."

"Of course." Marbrand hadn't expected his argument to have any effect, but he'd needed to give his warning in any case. "I just think-" He cut off with an oath. They'd reached the point where the way ahead turned downward once more. The ravines to either side opened up, revealing a vast field down below.

A field filled with people. Elves and naga, turning as if to confront a foe pouring out of a wide valley to the right. Except they were all standing completely still.

"What?" Nex demanded.

"A few miles ahead, down the Pass. An army of elves and naga standing still."

The young lord cursed. "Like Kanviel's forces at the mouth of the pass?"

Marbrand caught sight of Jocal and Ilinar standing on a ledge halfway down, staring. "Come on." He cautiously guided his mount down the treacherous slope, fervently hoping there were no ice slicks buried beneath the two feet of snow here.

Castaway appeared from another side trail, a narrow crack in the stone that didn't look like even a human could squeeze through in some places, and when he saw what they were looking at he cursed and mounted up to follow them. "Too dark to see those when I got here an hour ago."

When they reached Jocal the scout turned to face them gravely. "There has to be over two hundred down there. Unless Nex wants to take them all out for us we can't fight through that."

Nex favored the man with a flat look. "You're assuming they're undead."

Ilinar looked surprised. "What else could they be? They haven't moved since we first sighted them."

"Yes, but I sense no necromantic power from them. Only a deep, deep cold, like ice." Nex reined his horse forward, down the slope directly toward the immobile army. Marbrand cursed and moved to follow, hand on his sword. If they were undead they were liable to spot them at any time, and then their forty soldiers were looking at another impossible fight.

But there was no stirring from the figures down below, and the closer he got the more certain Marbrand was that there wouldn't be. Kanviel's undead elves had been motionless, yes, but only because they were all in line and prepared for battle, waiting for an enemy to come to them. These elves and naga looked in the midst of motion, drawing weapons, wheeling to face a threat. When he got close enough to see their expressions he could see the shock, the terror, the defiant rage frozen on their features.

Yes, frozen. They looked like they'd all been carved from ice.

"Statues?" Castaway asked, staring across the field with interest. "Who would waste their time creating a battlefield of sculptures out in the middle of nowhere?"

Saire, who'd moved up to ride beside him, was already shaking her head. "Not unless the icecarver was prescient. When before in all of history has an army of elves and naga marched up this path together?"

"This was intense cold," Marbrand said, dismounting to walk a slow circuit around the nearest elf. "Striking so fast its victims froze in whatever position they were in rather than huddling to the ground in death." He tapped the elf's half-drawn sword and the weapon, elf, clothes and all shattered to grisly shards. He shuddered. "Flash freezing. I've never seen the like."

"Count yourself lucky then, knight," Nex said, tone vague as he concentrated with his second sight. "This unnatural cold struck each victim to the core in an instant. It's lich magic. A powerful one, perhaps even Kel'thuzad himself."

"We saw no sign of Kel'thuzad or any other lich with Arthas's forces," Blackfinger objected, staring in horror at an elf woman near him in mage's robes who, alone of all the others, had died curled in a ball, her magics not enough to protect her.

Nex shrugged. "I have little experience with liches, so I couldn't tell one from the other by the flavor of their magic. But this one was a powerful caster, that can't be argued."

Saire had left off staring at the bodies and moved forward twenty paces, staring in the direction all of the elves and naga were facing, that wide valley. Her pale features had gone paler still. Marbrand strode forward to see what had caught her attention, and within only a few feet slowed to a stop, ice crawling down his spine.

The valley wasn't a long one, only a few hundred yards deep, and dominating the end of it was a vast structure, all of dark stone and iron, like a stepped pyramid carved with skulls, bones, and wailing faces, resting atop four slender columns, one at each corner. The walls of the structure were lined with undead in rigid ranks, standing guard.

Nex abruptly spoke, voice alarmed. "Back away, Saire!" he snapped. "Marbrand, go no further. There are magical wards strung across the Pass, an alarm ready to warn that necropolis of our presence. Everyone, fall back!"

Marbrand stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over a delicate female naga who shattered at his touch. A necropolis. He'd heard tales of the dread Scourge strongholds from the recruits who'd seen them in Lordaeron.

"A necropolis?" Castaway said, for one of the rare times wearing no smile. "How did it come to be here, unchallenged by Illidan's army?"

Nex's face was impassive, hands outspread as if feeling an invisible surface. "It flew," he said grimly. "It's here to block Illidan's retreat down the Pass following his defeat."

"I thought the Scourge forces are scrambling to protect the Frozen Throne," Saire protested. "Why would he divert such a valuable resource to rearguard when Illidan is pressing forward?"

"The Lich King must have found new confidence in the war, which can only mean Menethil's forces have broken through to the surface once more."

"Then it's a race," Marbrand said, resigned. "Or at the very least a major battle at the glacier itself. We have no time to waste."

The young lord's hands fell to his sides. "No, we don't. We may even be too late. But however we get there, we cannot go forward. I might try my hand against this lich, but our forty cannot challenge hundreds of Scourge troops. We must find another way."

. . . . .

"How many possibilities are there?" Nex asked.

Marbrand spat. "I believe you mean good possibilities. These mountains will be a maze of ravines going every which way, with dead ends, false trails, switchbacks that take us close to where we need to be without ever reaching it, what have you. If we make a wrong choice we could be lost and die in the mountains, and never mind making it in time to aid in the battle."

Nex could never understand the need for people in council to state the obvious as if it could affect the decision one way or the other. Except doing so always _did_ affect the decision, usually in that there never ended up being one.

They'd retreated back down the Pass for an hour and had sentries watching the skies and the way ahead like hawks for any sign of activity from that necropolis. The aerial battle had moved out of view to even Montfere's eyes, which only served to make the need for haste all the more obvious.

"Possibilities," he said again.

Jocal shrugged. "A day back there was that ravine cutting southwest. It might break northward."

"A fairly big gamble, and if it doesn't pay off we've waisted at least two days, probably more like three," Nex answered. "Anything better?"

"The valley that cuts northeast two days back. Might not take us toward Icecrown but may be a way around the guarded part of the Pass."

"Keep going."

"There's that wide, level split went westward a week past. That looked like it could go anywhere."

Kyle abruptly stood, looking impatient. "You're offering options that are farther and farther away, but you passed over the nearest one. What about the west pass?"

His question was met with blank silence. "What?" Castaway finally asked.

"You know, the narrow one we saw as we were setting out this morning."

"The one we passed less than three hours ago?" Blackfinger said incredulously. "It's a goat track. I have doubts _we_ could navigate it, and we'd certainly have to leave the horses behind."

"So we leave the horses behind. You can bet most alternative routes we took to Icecrown would end up being impassable for them at one point or another. We slaughter some for meat, turn the rest loose, and be on our way."

"That's madness!" Olivia said, aghast. "Leave the horses behind for something that's as likely to be a dead end as any other? We're going to need them."

Kyle refused to back down. "The west pass could be an alternative route to Icecrown. It could be a way to get there without having to fight our way through hordes of Scourge."

Marbrand cleared his throat. "They're right, boy. We can't take such a blind risk."

Kyle turned to him. "Then let's not take a blind risk! Let me take Ilinar and at least scout it out a short ways while you guys backtrack, and if it looks promising we can catch up to you before you get too far. It's worth a chance just to check it in the event your forward progress becomes bogged down."

"There are no unguarded paths to the Frozen Throne," Marbrand said, obviously frustrated. "Even if you found something, you'd be putting yourself and the boy in danger. We'll need you both."

"Then give me more men? Why is this so hard to understand, Marbrand?" Kyle demanded, showing his own anger. "Through mountains such as these there are always alternatives, so many that the Lich King couldn't possibly guard them all without spreading himself thin. And a difficult trail is even less likely to be guarded. I could find a trail that will secure our victory in the face of defeat!"

Nex cut in before the old knight could argue further. "Go now, then," he told the recruit. "And hurry."

Kyle nodded and slipped out of the tent. The others fell back to arguing, and Nex listened with irritation. He was about to tell them to shut up and get ready to move out when Kyle burst back through the flaps. "Ilinar's gone!"

With a curse Nex pushed to his feet and focused his second sight. "Yes, he's nowhere in the camp." He shoved Kyle aside and exited the tent.

It took only a few moments of searching to find Montfere's footprints leaving the camp in the direction of the frozen army. He ducked back into the tent. "Get everyone moving south," he snapped. "Kyle, your west pass just became high priority. Take five men with you, including Nova and Saire. Marbrand, keep the others going down the Pass for the southwest ravine in case Kyle's route turns out to be a dead end."

Without waiting for a response he jogged up the Pass, ignoring the persistent ache in his left leg. It didn't take long to reach the sentries and realize that Montfere's tracks led him around their positions. As he'd expected, none of them had seen the boy. He continued on, growing more and more irritated.

Damnit, what madness was the bloodthirsty little bastard planning now?

. . . . .

Marbrand was about to follow the others out of the tent when he noticed that Lady Olivia was hanging back, sitting on the bundle of furs that had been brought in for them to rest on while they talked. "My Lady?"

She glanced over at him, expression strained. "He's gone after Ilinar then?" she asked. Marbrand nodded, and to his shock her face crumpled in anguish and tears began leaking from her eyes. "And if he decides the boy's deserting and kills him?"

Marbrand took a step forward, feeling awkward and helpless. He wanted to offer some comfort, but he didn't know what to say or do. He didn't spend much time alone with woman, and it had been over a decade since he'd been alone with a crying one. "He wouldn't. Nex has a soft spot in his heart for that boy, I promise you."

"He has no soft spots!" she shot back, suddenly blazing into anger. But at the same time the tears continued to flow. "You told me so yourself. All those innocent people, people who'd fought and taken injuries for him, who'd watched their friends die, had burned their bodies and scattered their bones in what had to feel like black desecration! He murdered them all!"

Marbrand's arms felt like any way he tried to hold them was ridiculous. He wanted to put them around her. "It's almost over," he said feebly.

"It'll never be over," she whispered, hunching down with her head bowed, tears dripping onto her hands. "We'll get lost in the mountains, or if we win through we'll face a deathless enemy and perish. Alvin was right, we're all going to die. Oh, poor Alvin." And she dropped her face into her hands and sobbed.

Marbrand hesitated, anguished. She was so strong, so sure. Hadn't she promised to be a light in dark places. How could he be strong, when even she was finally giving into despair?

He had to tell her. What did it serve that her pain continue, when he had the means of alleviating it at his fingertips? Nex had warned him he wouldn't be the only one to die if he spoke, but couldn't trust this brave, compassionate woman to keep the secret even as he did?

"Olivia," he said quietly. She slowly looked up at him, eyes beautiful with tears. He crossed to her bed to sit down beside her, taking her hand in his. "Olivia, what I tell you you must tell no one else."

She looked surprised. "Of course, Sir Marbrand."

He met her eyes intently, trying to will her strength. "You need not grieve for Alvin and the other deserters. Nex let them go. His claims were a subterfuge to prevent further desertions."

For a moment after he told her the news Olivia's eyes lit up with an almost frighteningly intense delight, and then surprise and happiness spread across her features. She gave a sob, a final sob to release all the emotions that no longer need be felt, and then fell into his arms. "Oh thank the Light," she whispered against his neck. "Oh thank the Light, I was so afraid of what monster we followed."

Marbrand sat stiffly, unsure how to handle this woman in his embrace. He felt tremendously uncomfortable, but at the same time her warmth and softness was so appealing he didn't want her to draw away. In that moment his caution abandoned him, and he gently tucked one scarred finger under her chin and lifted her face to meet his, pressing his lips lightly against hers.

Immediately Olivia backed away, stumbling against the wall of the tent and nearly falling as she rose to stand as tall as she could in the small space. "Sir Marbrand," she said in stern reproof. "This is highly inappropriate."

Marbrand lurched to his feet, the top of his head pressing against the canvas, as mortification and chagrin filled him. "I-I'm so sorry, Lady Olivia. I don't know what came over me."

Her expression was uncertain, her hands toying the hem of her fur coat at her waist. She wouldn't meet his eyes. "Was this simple desire, then? You've never hinted at-"

He cut her off hastily, unable to stop himself from speaking. "No, Lady, no. I've loved you from the first, but held back for the cause we're about. And, and for my respect for you." He felt a fool, saying such things, sounding so clumsy and awkward.

She lifted her eyes to meet his at last, pools of blue so deep he could swim in them. "You love me, then?"

He nodded. "My heart is yours, Lady, if you desire it." He wanted to be bolder, less diffident, but romance was a young man's game. He'd made himself vulnerable for her, and it was up to her to play no games.

But from the way her expression slowly changed to one of sorrow he knew there were no games here, and no romance either. "Sir Marbrand," she said gently, eyes never wavering from his. But now he could see pity in them. "It grieves me to speak now, but I would not leave room for misunderstanding. I feel nothing for you, and I cannot look upon your face with desire."

The words struck him like a blow. "Y-you-" he began, then firmly stopped himself.

Of course. Of course. What a damn fool he was. She always met his eyes, and her expression was always warm and kind when he spoke to her. She was, in fact, so gracious that in her presence he almost forgot how he must appear to others. Foolishly, he almost allowed himself to feel as gallant as her words made him out to be.

But it was only courtesy. Of course it was only courtesy. All his thoughts of honor, of the purity of his task overweighing personal desires, of himself being only a low, common old soldier. And he'd never once let the thought of his appearance come into it. He'd fooled himself into thinking because she didn't outwardly recoil, she must not inwardly do so.

"I apologize for troubling you with this matter," he said stiffly. Unable to meet her gaze, he pulled the hood of his cloak down farther and turned on one heel, striding from the room. She made no reply, nor did she move from where she stood.

Twice a fool. No woman could feel comfortable looking upon him. He'd learned that years ago, when he'd first recovered from his terrible burns and learned that all those ladies and fair maidens with their smiles had disappeared. Only his brothers in arms now looked on him, because they knew his worth and cared nothing for appearance.

It would only be merciful to avoid her from here on out. Perhaps she would deem it cowardice, and maybe there was something of that in his decision. But if his appearance offended her he would take away that which gave offense.

Because he did care for her, even now.

He found Jocal at the horse lines, rubbing down his mount in lieu of saddling her. The squire seemed surprised to see him. "Shouldn't you be ordering the men, sir?"

"Have Kyle and his party left yet?" Marbrand demanded.

"What, on their foray of the west pass? They're still gathering provisions. Are you sure you can't convince them out of that foolishness?"

"Far from it. Go find Blackfinger and tell him he has command."

Jocal gaped. "You can't mean-"

"I mean exactly that. I'm leading the west pass party out."

The squire fidgeted unhappily. "Lord Nex won't be happy."

"Lord Nex can turn himself into a living bomb again for all I care." Marbrand saddled Jocal's horse and mounted her, ignoring the squire's cry of protest. He rode to find Kyle. "Catch up to me," he snapped at the surprised youth, and then he was cantering down the Pass.

Good gods, what a fool. What a fool.

. . . . .

Montfere was nearly to the mouth of the valley when Nex caught up. The boy stopped, nostrils widening, and then turned to face him, eyes glowing blue in the daylight. He said nothing.

"What are you doing?" Nex demanded.

Flat, emotionless features. Cold, uncaring tone. "You yourself told me the only place I could find a runeforge was a Scourge necropolis."

"So you're just going to walk up to their doors and politely ask for the use of it? Those undead will tear you apart before you've crossed half the distance."

The boy's lips curled upward, showing his teeth. "Who says I'm going to fight them?"

Nex felt a moment of shock, but he refused to believe what he was hearing. "Scourge aren't particularly known for taking prisoners."

"No, but their recruitment policy is very open."

Nex searched deep within the boy with his second sight, watching the blood flow through his veins, his heart pump. It was excitement he saw in Montfere, and his words were the truth. "You're going to join them?" he asked softly.

Montfere's ran his tongue across his upper teeth, smile widening. "Don't you understand, Lokiv? The power that froze all these poor fools. It's the same as mine. You told me you couldn't teach me, that there was probably no one in the world who could. But you were wrong."

The boy started to turn away, and Nex surged forward and caught his shoulder. "You're not going anywhere."

With a laugh Montfere turned back to him. "What are you going to do, Lokiv. Kill me? I don't think you can."

"You'd be wrong, boy. You're not as strong as you think you are."

Coldly glowing eyes stared up at his blindfold, as if piercing through to the black flames beneath. "What makes you think I was saying anything of your _ability_ to kill me?"

Nex shook the boy roughly. "You think because I didn't kill others I won't kill you?"

"I _know_ it. You're soft, Lokiv. You're pathetic. I watched you kill those who attacked you and thought you had an unbendable will. But you shrink away from killing after all. Even after all the death and destruction you've brought, you're still horrified at the sight of blood."

"There's a far difference from sparing a bunch of useless deserters and sparing a traitor, Montfere. If you take another step forward, I _will_ kill you."

Montfere laughed. "At most you'll drag me back to camp and keep a close watch on me. You wouldn't kill your pupil, who you've gone out of your way to help so many times. Who you _brought back from the dead_!" When he said those last words his voice grew poisonous.

And he took a step.

Before the foot landed Nex had a torpedo's tip pressed into the half-elf's jugular, drawing a trickle of blood. "I don't have the time or energy to babysit a traitor, and I won't ask any of the others to do it either. I've also grown more than a little tired of your attitude. Think very carefully before you finish putting your foot down."

Montfere gave a low laugh and power unexpectedly exploded out from him. He twisted, escaping Nex's grasp. Nex tried to drive the torpedo home but his arm was immobile, frozen stiff. It took him only a few moments to dispel the effect, but in that time Montfere sprang forward, crossing the sensory wards that blocked the entrance to the valley.

Nex flung the torpedo, but Montfere dropped into a roll beneath it and was up on his feet again, legs pumping in a full sprint toward the necropolis.

Damnit. Damnit damnit damnit, the idiot boy. Nex really _didn't_ want to kill him. But he was going to.

He sent a line of incinerating flames after the boy, surging faster than the swiftest mountain cat could run, and the spell caught the boy in seconds. But Montfere pulled cold from the snow and ice beneath him and somehow defeated the effect, even though it exploded and sent him flying forward, clothes burning. Nex began casting a more potent shadowbolt, but before he could complete it the boy twisted on the ground and held out a hand, clenching his fist. Nex felt something like an iron vise closing around his throat, and though the attack shouldn't have stopped his spell it surprised him and broke his concentration. He felt shadow slip away from him as if he'd been counterspelled, even as Montfere regained his feet and bolted.

Snarling, Nex gathered up far more power than necessary and launched a shadowfury spell after the fleeing boy. The writhing ball of shadows arced through the air and dropped straight towards Montfere's head.

Just before hitting, a sheet of ice spread out along Montfere's back to catch the spell, stopping it completely. Even as the shadowfury spell dissipated the ice continued to spread, taking on the appearance of plate as it completely covered the running boy. Nex stared in shock, but it wasn't Montfere who had cast the frost armor spell.

At the end of the valley the doors to the necropolis had been flung open, and from it a figure in tattered, flowing robes emerged, floating above the ground. It wore a high mantle over a skull misshapen by the Lich King's power, and golden chains encircled it, writhing and twisting over cloth that hung baggy around scoured bones beneath.

A lich. Whether it had come to save Montfere or challenge Nex, or both, here it was.

Nex snarled and hurled another torpedo, but the frost armor defeated it, barely even knocking the boy off-balance. He'd gone far enough that Nex would have to openly challenge the lich in order to catch him at this point, and the lich's power was considerable. He hesitated, torn, and the issue was decided for him as dozens of necromancers poured out of the entrance, flanked by elves on ragged molting hawkstriders, both undead, with frozen naga slithering behind. The lich was gathering power for a massive frost spell.

Damnit, and he'd spent so much power last night trying to achieve metamorphosis. He didn't have the strength for this. Nor the time, if he was to carry out his master's orders.

"This is not over, Montfere!" Nex shouted after the boy. "When the Frozen Throne is destroyed I'll be coming for you!"

Montfere stopped running and turned to face him, and his features were twisted in a mocking smile. Nex painted that image in his memory for a future when he was free to do as he wished, then turned and fled, levitating above the snow and running along the side of the cliff, away from the enemies pouring out in pursuit.

He hoped Marbrand and the others had gotten well away.


	23. Deathwhisper

"So did you hear about Blizzard's new April Fools joke?"

"What?"

"Yeah, "Mists of Panaderia". They've got a whole thing up on the website, even announced it at Blizzcon. I tell you, those guys get more and more elaborate with their April Fools."

"Umm...okay. First of all, it's "Mists of Pandaria". Panaderia means "bakery" in Spanish. And second, it's October."

Smile slowly fades. "What? You mean Blizzard isn't trolling us with pandas and an expansion focused on bringing peace to Azeroth?"

"Sadly no."

"DUBBLEYEW...TEE...EFF!"

And now for something completely different.

"Lord Uther. By my right of succession and the sovereignty of my crown, I hereby relieve you of command and release your paladins from service."

"Oh yeah, boy? Well by my right of fuzzy kittens and the sovereignty of cow pastures I refuse. Come back when you have actual authority and we'll try this again."

"One day you'll regret your rebellion to Lordaeron's authority."

"Yes, and on the day your father dies you're welcome to punish me for it."

Arthas turns away. "Maybe I will," he mutters. "Maybe I will." (Things suddenly aren't looking so good for Terenas)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Deathwhisper

They hadn't left him a horse.

Unsurprising, all things considered, and he probably should have thought ahead to bringing one. In his current shape, given the damage his body had already suffered and the added strain of his attempts to achieve metamorphosis, his days of running across entire continents with no food and little rest were over.

A minor inconvenience, but even so it was almost two hours before a group of his soldiers setting up camp on a rise ahead came within range of his second sight. He paused, frowning; only nine people were there, including Havel, Blackfinger, Jocal, Olivia, and Janis as well as three of Marbrand's recruits and one of his. And as he continued forward there was no sign of the others aside from a trail of footprints and snow trampled by hooves leading further down the Pass.

He quickened his pace, noting how everyone turned to watch his approach. "Waiting for me, then?" he called.

A few among the group shifted guiltily. "Not exactly," Blackfinger called back.

Nex slowed. "What do you mean?" No response. "Where's Marbrand?"

Some more guilty shifting and furtive exchanged glances. Finally Olivia sighed in exasperation and stepped forward. "He led Kyle's scouting party to the west pass, riding ahead of the group."

That seemed uncharacteristic; ever since he'd confronted the man about it Marbrand had held to the sensible notion that the commander of an army should stay with that army, preferably at the back of the lines. "And who did he leave in charge of the group?"

More shifting. "Me," Blackfinger admitted.

Nex reached up and massaged the bridge of his nose beneath the blindfold. "So why aren't you with the group?"

The big man squared his shoulders. "My Lord. They've, ah, mutinied."

Nex cursed. "Mutinied." No response. "I'm growing tired of getting half responses. Tell it to me plain."

Again it was Olivia who stepped forward. Normally they were of a height, but on this slope she loomed over him. "Plain then, Nex. After Marbrand and the scouting party departed a rumor tore through the camp that you spared Alvin and his deserters. The others were sufficiently willing to believe it that they seized our supplies and horses and fled. We are all who remained loyal."

Nex went still. Perfectly, absolutely still. There was no adequate way to describe the rage that surged through him at that point, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from responding to it. The silence stretched for more than a minute as he fought to calm himself, before he finally spoke. "The source of the rumor?"

Jocal cleared his throat. "Kyle let slip something before departing. He claims to have heard it from Marbrand."

Nex calmly turned and held out his hand, and flames roared out from it in a liquid bar to splash across the eastern wall of the Pass. The others cringed, a couple of the recruits letting out frightened yelps, and heat washed over them all, the light making everyone who still had eyes squint.

Marbrand. He would have guessed this poison was a last gift from Montfere before the little bastard went traitor in search of power. What possible motivation could the burned knight have for this? How could he show such ingratitude for Nex's mercy?

He let the spell fade away and turned, rubbing his scorched palm on his coat. "Who was he talking to before he left? Any reason for this unexpected behavior?" A few pairs of eyes darted to Olivia, and Nex beckoned to her.

She followed him a short way down the slope, out of earshot. The others were almost absurd in their haste to return to camp and act normal. The cleric was pale, expression troubled by traces of shame and distress she did well to hide, but not well enough.

Nex began pacing. "You are aware that Marbrand leads this army?"

Her lips tightened slightly in annoyance. "I'm aware of that, yes."

"And yet for some reason he elected to ride off without advance warning, leaving Blackfinger in charge. He also apparently decided to disclose information that led to the desertion of the remainder of our army."

For the first time she looked away from him. "I . . . may have had something to do with that."

Nex stopped his pacing and turned to face her. "What?" He'd suspected from her expressions that she had, but her open admission surprised him.

"I, ah, well he . . ." She trailed off, her pale skin flushing in what might have been embarrassment.

"Spit it out."

The words came in a rush. "He professed his feelings for me, and I spurned him."

It was fortunate his jaw was clenched, or he would have gaped. Marbrand had abandoned the army for _this_? He'd opened his fool mouth for _this_? "Lords of the Seventh Abyss. Of all the ridiculous reasons. What possessed you?"

She arched a cool eyebrow at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm speaking in the plural," he snapped. "You should both be old enough to know better than to let silly things like this distract you from our purpose."

"I assure you, Nex, I did nothing of the sort. I cannot change how others feel about me."

Nex could think of nothing to say to that. He began pacing again, blazing with disbelief. Marbrand was the last person he would've expected to run away like a sulky child. What was he going to do now? The man was half the heart of this army, the hero they all looked to to wade through ice and death to lead them out alive. And not only had he abandoned them but he'd given them all the cause they needed to in turn abandon him.

Gods damn. He spun to face Olivia again. "You couldn't just lead him along?"

Her eyes narrowed in disapproval. "I couldn't do that to him."

"Why not? Let him live the last week of his life in a happy lie. A gentler fate than sending him out into the cold on a doomed mission with despair in his heart." She stared at him, stricken, but he didn't care. "In fact forget about Marbrand. You just had to give this army's leader a reason for leaving them to their fates because he's lovesick over a woman. This is humanity's fate we fight for, and you couldn't say a few false words?"

She somehow managed to combine frost and fire into the glare she sent his way through eyes glimmering with unshed tears. "Lord Nex, you are a heartless man."

"Looking at Marbrand's fate I couldn't ask for a kinder boon."

She fled.

Nex watched her go, grinding his teeth and feeling his long canines dig into his gums. What was he going to do now? Everyone abandoning him one by one or in whole abyss-stricken groups. Even less chance he could get these deserters back than he'd had with Alvin's bunch, and killing them would only be a waste of his time and effort. Not to mention that if he did go after them, he could end up losing the handful of people who remained.

Was it possible Montfere had been right about him? He couldn't inspire through anything but fear, and now even that was gone from him, and he had no desire to take the steps that would restore it.

He turned his attention to the blackened rock he'd taken his rage out on, which seemed to mock his impotence, then strode up the slope. Eight faces raised to look at him. "No rest," he snapped. "We catch up with Marbrand."

Promises released by promises broken notwithstanding, there was _one_ oath he meant to keep.

Marbrand would die for this.

. . . . .

But when they reached the west pass his intentions were delayed when they found a marker.

Marbrand's scratchings, Blackfinger claimed. Messages to the effect of advising the entire army to take this trail, that he would lead the way scouting and they shouldn't expect to meet up with him for a time.

Guilt? A desire not to see Olivia? Simple pragmatism? Either way there was nothing for it but to follow.

Near sunrise the pass turned northward, cutting between a couple of peaks. Judging from what the others said Icecrown Glacier was in sight at times directly ahead, and by all appearances they needed only to cross a ridge and they'd have a straight shot to it.

They could be up that ridge in less than a full day's travel. Marbrand's party was even sighted on a switchback a good distance ahead.

"Four hours to sleep," Nex said. "Then we press to catch up to the others."

That wasn't well received, but at this point he hardly cared. There was no chance of Blackfinger or Jocal deserting at this point, given their loyalty to Marbrand. The recruits were near useless and he didn't much care if they did, and Olivia and Janis seemed to have their hatred of the Scourge to keep them going. Havel was, of course, bound.

Still it was a weary and silent group that pushed up several switchbacks and a slope of scree. If the mutineers hadn't stolen the horses they definitely would've been forced to abandon them at this point. Nex was tempted to use levitation to aid him up the worst parts, but elected not to, nor did he strengthen himself more than he had to. He also hadn't bothered practicing metamorphosis while the others rested.

All signs pointed to him needing every bit of his strength within the next day or so.

And sure enough, when they crested the rise and had a view of the flat, icy plain separating them from Icecrown Glacier the others raised exclamations of alarm.

"Describe it for me," Nex commanded, no longer caring if anyone knew of his limitations.

Jocal cleared his throat. "Our allies are breaking out of the Pass, not a mile east of here, and meeting strong Scourge resistance. Marbrand and the others are nowhere in sight. Goddess of mercy!"

Nex fought his frustration. "What?"

"There's not a couatl, nether drake, or dragonhawk in sight. Gargoyles are harrying our allies at the front, and-"

"Damn your eyes, Nex," Blackfinger cut in fiercely, "can't you see for yourself? A dozen undead dragons are strafing our allies down the Pass!"

Nex cursed. The ridge rose to their right in a steady slope, and at the end joined up with a cliff cutting southward that overlooked Angrathar and this battle they were describing. He could follow it directly, but they'd have to make their way down onto the plain before they could be of any aid to anyone. "Find a way down and meet up with Marbrand. Join the fighting however you can."

"And you?" Olivia asked, sounding almost accusing. The response was understandable; he'd pushed this pathetic little group hard, almost as hard as Marbrand had pushed his group. And now instead of being allowed the rest they needed he was ordering them into battle.

Well too bad. The end was almost in sight, and the battle was in front of them. In fact at this point he almost didn't care if they balked and decided to pitch tents right on this ridge. "I'll join it however I can," he answered grimly. Without waiting for a response he ran up the slope.

It didn't take long before he came close enough to see the unfolding battle with his second sight.

. . . . .

In the chaos of battle it's common for forces to become separated, isolated from the main host. Even the most disciplined soldiers can be cut off from reinforcements, especially against an enemy that outnumbers you and fearlessly plunges into your lines, cutting around and through them like water breaking from a collapsing dam.

That was the situation the Royal Infantry 11th Brigade found themselves in now. Originally part of the vanguard protecting the left flank, pushing the Scourge back so the bulk of the army could escape the narrow confines of Angrathar Pass and form ranks, they'd been pounded by a score of undead giants of a race none of them had ever seen before. Now the few dozen of them that remained were pushed up against a steep slope as Scourge forces pushed them ever farther away from the Pass.

On their eastern flank, trying to press back and rejoin the main host, Lieutenant Aneris was bellowing the 11th forward. The undead giants were a terrifying foe, combining their brute strength and ferocity with that same undead fearlessness that let them laugh at wounds that did nothing to slow them even as they punched deeper and deeper into the enemy. The only saving grace was that the berserk creatures were so wild in their frenzy that their sweeping strikes hit smaller undead trying to duck around them to get at the elves.

Not far away from the lieutenant, Corporal Telavien finished chopping the final limb off one of the monsters and fell back in beside her officer. "Where's the mage support?" she shouted at him over the din.

Aneris spared her a quick glance. "What?"

"One flamestrike would cut us a nice quick path back to the others. Why haven't we gotten any help?"

The lieutenant ducked a slash and pointed his broadsword at the sky. "They've got bigger problems." As if to punctuate his words a frost wyrm roared out of the Pass, having finished a strafing run, and even as they watched began a wide bank to get into position for another.

"All right, that's the sort of enemy I'm glad the mages are handling," she admitted. "But really, they can't spare one measly spell where a dozen giant undead are packed tight?"

"Bigger problems, Corporal!" he snapped. "Rule one of infantry combat, never expect help. If it comes great." He fell silent as he set to hacking at a ghoul that had miraculously managed to get past the giants without being smashed.

"I'm just used to having magic at my back, is all," Telavien said. "First we lose the Sunwell and I feel like I've got ants crawling under my skin all the time. Then the Light abandons us and we lose our healers. Now we lose our arcane tactical? What's going to disappear next, gravity? I feel like I'm fighting without a weapon."

"Listen, you want a frost wyrm to eat you? Keep complaining."

"At least then something'd be eating me," she muttered.

"What was that, Corporal?"

"Nothing, sir." Telavien dove aside from a crushing blow from the nearest giant's mace, and the thing lumbered forward to trample her. Time seemed to slow as she struggled to roll out of the way. The monstrous undead gave a surprised grunt and its charge became a fall, making the ground shudder as it landed atop her legs. For a moment she nearly blacked out from the pain, and during that time the giant started to lift itself up on its arms, reaching for her.

In a somewhat surreal daze she watched as an elf, out of uniform, sauntered up the creature's back and hacked off the arm before its hand could close around her throat. It fell away, still twitching and the hand clutching randomly, but she was able to pick it up and fling it away. The strange elf took another step and began hacking at the giant's neck, and as it bellowed and squirmed beneath him Telavien was able to pull herself free and begin hacking at its remaining arm.

She had a distant moment to notice how the creature's legs seemed oddly pressed together, kicking against each other but not moving. She managed to hack off the arm and went after the legs, then realized that they'd been bound together at the ankles with fine, strong cord. When had that happened?

A moment later a handful of the remaining undead giants, who'd gathered in a knot for another charge at the 11th, abruptly burst into flames. Roaring, they scattered in all directions swinging their crude clubs and hammers randomly, wreaking devastation among the smaller Scourge.

As she gaped at the scene, glad a mage had finally intervened, the elf who'd aided her appeared at her side, helping her straighten with one hand at her elbow. She shook him off with irritation. "What do I look like, a courtesan?"

"Yes," the elf said, flashing perfect teeth. "All the wealthy elves seeking companionship lament your choice to go into soldiering."

She glanced around, and was bemused to find that a handful of humans had thrown themselves into the fight. The Scourge were being pushed back enough for the 11th to form a more coherent perimeter. "I bet you say that to all the girls."

"It usually doesn't come up." The strange elf seemed to disappear, and Telavien jumped slightly and looked around. Higher up the slope they'd been fighting with their backs to she saw a lone mage, flames wreathing her hands and eyes blazing as she cast a spell. A moment later a fireball hissed out to catch one of the few remaining giants in the head, and even as it roared and began staggering it fell, its legs suspiciously bound, and the strange elf was there hacking at its head.

With a shrug she made her way over to the lieutenant, who was speaking to the ugliest human Telavien had ever seen. First of all he was old, which was always a turn-off since humans aged so poorly, and he was covered in scars and dressed like a beggar. But mostly it was a face covered in burns, twisting his lips into a constant grimace.

". . . marched north with Lord Nex."

Aneris frowned. "What, Lord Illidan's pet human? Figures you'd show up unannounced with barely enough soldiers to be of use." The lieutenant bellowed at his troops, gathering the 11th and starting them back toward the Pass. "I thought you were back with Kanviel. Where's your master anyway?"

The burned human shrugged. "Somewhere behind me, probably not far."

The lieutenant shrugged. "Well for now you're 11th. Welcome aboard." He waved his warglaive at the Pass. "Our current mission is to ensure safe deployment for the main army out of—hey!"

The warglaive whipped out of his hand and upward. Gaping, Telavien followed its progress up the steep slope to where a figure stood, armed outstretched to catch it.

Aneris and the burned human were doing the same, and when he saw the figure the human grunted. "Oh, there he is."

The figure snatched the flying warglaive out of the air and began running along the ridge overlooking the Pass. A frost wyrm was looping around for a strafing run, and the figure seemed intent on it.

Almost as if he planned to jump onto it.

. . . . .

The frost wyrms were running a constant pattern over the soldiers bottlenecked at the mouth of the Pass, so there was almost always one doing a strafing run. That meant he didn't have long to wait for a suitable target to present itself.

The one he chose was among the larger of the undead dragons, wings outstretched as it banked around, then flapping heavily as it prepared to glide only fifty or so feet above its victims. Blue light was already gathering around its jaws, preparing its breath attack.

Most of the blood elves and naga managed to get out of the way of the frigid blast, or protect themselves with shields of metal or magic. A few near the center of the mouth took the brunt of the breath and fell swiftly, cries seizing in frozen lungs.

Nex was already running along the west ridge of the ravine, leaping easily from one icy outcrop to the next. The frost wyrm had finished its strafing run and was approaching his location, far faster than he could run, but that hardly mattered. It was starting to rise on its skeletal wings, intending to lift up above the two ridges of the ravine so it could wheel around for another pass, as it had the last two times.

Timing would be a fairly critical issue. But then, that was only to be expected.

In his hands he carried his stolen warglaive, a weapon nearly as long as a quarterstaff meant to be held in the middle with a razor-sharp blade at either end. While waiting for his chance he had infused the weapon with enchantments to burn away mana with every strike, which he hoped in this case would be more useful than the undead slaying his other weapons were enchanted with.

From the valley below the combined blood elf and naga casters replied to the strafing run with a barrage of spells, most of which deflected or missed. One massive fireball, however, which came from nearly directly behind him rather than from below, caught the skeletal dragon at the base of its left wing and fractured the bones there. The creature gave a deafening bellow of pain and rage that sent waves of shattered ice crystals raining down from the ridges, but its upward flight was slowed for a few precious moments.

_Thank you, Saire_, he thought grimly as he sped up to a full sprint, leapt atop the outcrop jutting farthest out into the ravine, and sprang for the dragon's back.

As he flew he levitated slightly to increase his distance, but not enough to slow his momentum. His aim appeared to be true as well; barring any unexpected movement on the frost wyrm's part, he'd land on its spine halfway up its back, directly above the frigid inferno of magic that had replaced the creature's heart. He lifted the warglaive above him with both hands, and as he reached his destination swung it down in a powerful swing, wedging the razor point into the bone with all his weight behind the blow.

The creature roared and banked sharply, and his own momentum made him skid off the icy bones along its spine and swing wildly, only his grip on the glaive keeping him from falling off completely and slamming into the side of the ravine. The beast banked again and he swung the other way, slicing his hand open as his fist slid down the middle grip and out onto the blade. He ignored the pain, and the blade slicing deeper into his palm, and held on like grim death.

After a few more banking turns by the frost wyrm he finally had the movement figured out, and on the next sharp turn he managed to get his feet wrapped around one of the jagged bones jutting out of the creature's spine. He held on tight and let go of his glaive with his injured hand, conjuring up a ball of shadow power and loosing it point-blank between the creature's ribs. The frigid light at the core of the undead dragon pulsed, for the briefest moment, and the creature gave another bellow, but that was all the effect his spell seemed to have on the frost wyrm.

All right then. Nex sank down to his knees, wrapping his legs up under two of the spreading ribs and holding on tight. Intense cold bathed his legs, numbing them instantly even through his demon skin, and it took an alarming amount of power to shield them from further damage. But the upside was he had a good, solid position that freed up his arms for more important things. Gritting his teeth he yanked on the glaive until it came free, then swung it with all his might down at the spine in front of him. It struck with a horrible shriek of metal on bone, and shards of ice went flying in every direction. The dragon roared and banked until it was flying upside-down, out of the ravine now and flying over the frozen peaks surrounding Icecrown Glacier. The frost wyrm had flown close enough that Nex could perceive the nearest part of the glacier itself rising like a spiral staircase into the roiling skies above it, surrounded on all sides by a flat plain.

He didn't have long to concentrate on that daunting sight, however. Frozen sleet was pelting his face from the speed of their flight, and the dragon was winging away from the Glacier and sinking gradually lower to the peaks below, obviously trying to scrape him off its back without actually colliding with the rock. It was a tricky thing to do, flying upside-down with a damaged wing, but Nex wasn't going to take any bets that he had longer than a minute before the frost wyrm figured it out.

He swung again at the spine in front of him. His intention was to sever it completely, literally cutting the frost wyrm in half. He didn't know if even that would kill the creature, but missing its tail and back legs had to make flight almost impossible.

Unfortunately it didn't take him more than a dozen swings to realize that his initial signs of apparent success had simply been chips of the ice frozen onto the bone flying away. The dragon bone itself was harder than stone, harder than adamant even. His warglaive was well crafted, made of cobalt forged by skilled blood elf smiths, but even it was no match for the task. With every swing its edge grew more blunted, and he was swinging with all his considerable strength. As far as he could tell the spine was barely chipped, and his weapon was swift becoming useless.

In desperation he lifted it high over-or more accurately under-his head for one final swing, only to have it ripped away by a rock outcropping that passed by in a sickening blur.

Nex swore and pressed himself flat against the spine, ignoring the icy blast that rose up from the ribs beneath. The ground skimmed by just inches beneath him, and he ducked his head between two ribs just as the frost wyrm flew low enough to slam his shoulders hard against a flat patch of ice. Agony seared through him as the cloth covering his shoulders and then the skin itself was torn away by the jagged ice. The undead dragon abruptly rose slightly and the ground fell away until it was nearly ten feet from them. Nex panted in relief and turned his attention to the ground passing beneath him. The creature had broken away to avoid a jagged peak, and now they were skimming over a valley towards another ridge ahead, where the frost wyrm would presumably continue its relentless attempts to dislodge him.

"Shit." Now was as good a time as any. With impressive concentration he managed to ignore the pain of his injuries and the sleet pelting him and the ground blurring by beneath him as he focused his thoughts inwards. Drawing on the Illidari stone and the Vortex crystal simultaneously, he summoned enough power to make the full demon metamorphosis. As the changes started to take effect he crossed his fingers and hoped to hell it worked this time.

For a long time during his attempts he'd been foiled by the sheer corrupting nature of the metamorphosis. Stormrage had no need to fear such corruption when he worked the metamorphosis since consuming the Skull of Gul'dan had permanently changed him, but Nex had no desire to allow that permanent corruption into himself if he could avoid it.

That was when he'd stumbled upon the idea of using the Vortex crystal's power as a buffer, infusing himself with it so that the corruption of the metamorphosis remained superficial. It was a bit of a gamble, since if the crystal released shadow as its school of magic it would provide no protection. Even flame was dubious, but he wouldn't know for sure unless the metamorphosis actually worked.

Thankfully, or perhaps unfortunately, the power he drew from the crystal was holy. Gritting his teeth against the pain of infusing himself with it he let it suffuse him and accelerated the metamorphosis. He'd found that the faster he did it the more dangerous the process was, but the Vortex crystal's power was limited and he wasn't sure how much time he'd have.

He had no way to know if it was working any better this time than it had during his last, most successful, attempt, but the fact that his whole body now hurt worse than his scraped shoulders had must be a good sign. Either that or a very, very bad sign.

The undead dragon seemed to sense he was doing something major, because it abruptly broke off its attempts to smash him into the ground and soared high into the air, trying to crane its skeletal neck to see him. He caught a glimpse of a brilliant icy blue eye just as his own burst into red flame and horns jutted out from his forehead and lower jaw.

He smiled at that eye, revealing a mouth full of wicked sharp teeth, as he felt his ears growing larger and longer and a tail fighting to break free of his pants. "Remember me, Ner'zhul? I hope you're watching this."

Then he felt himself pass the point of his previous attempts and something burst within him. He felt as if he was invincible, with the boundless strength of a demon lord coursing through his veins. His reserves seethed suddenly with chaotic taint, flavoring everything he did, and then his reserves overflowed, filling him more and more until he felt like he could contain a vast reservoir rather than the piddling vessel he'd drawn from before. As if he could unleash cataclysmic spells without destroying himself.

He dearly hoped that was the case.

Suddenly laughing, he gathered all his energy and burst into flames, feeling the flavor of chaos in them as they bathed his skin. The frost wyrm's flight juddered as it shrieked in sudden dismay, folding its wings as it tried to dislodge him with a vicious corkscrew. Nex ignored the attempt, pushing his way through two of the frost wyrm's ribs and throwing himself into the creature's frigid core.

Cold unlike he'd ever experienced, unlike anything he could ever imagine, closed around him, and his chaotic immolating flames flickered, shrank, then guttered out. Nex bellowed, hearing the deep guttural sound escaping his own chest, and gathered up his power, pushing against the frigid essence of the creature around him. He touched no part of the frost wyrm, there within the core, but he was no longer worried about being dislodged and flung free.

Either he snuffed this creature's frigid essence out, or it snuffed him out.

. . . . .

Marbrand backed away from the fighting, staring in shock as the undead dragon Nex had thrown himself onto began jerking and thrashing in midair. It was so far away it looked like a large bird, and on its back Nex was no more than a dot, but it was easy to see when that dot burst into flames. But not natural flame; he'd seen that color before, but never from a mortal caster.

It was the flame wielded by eredar warlocks and other powerful demonic spellcasters. Green and pale yellow, so sickly that even the icy blue of the frost wyrm's aura seemed tainted by it. The flames seemed to grow brighter and brighter, and then they sank into the heart of blue fire within the undead dragon's chest. For a moment the light pulsed, and then the flames went out.

He might have feared that Nex was dead, but he hadn't left the frost wyrm unscathed. The creature shrieked in agony and dropped like a stone, twisting lifelessly as it fell with its limp wings whipping along above it. Within that blue light sickly green pulsed once more.

Then the dragon slammed into the plain with enough speed to shatter even its massive bones, sending up a cloud of snow crystals to partially obscure the green and blue lights flickering within.

"Incredible," a female voice breathed at his side.

Marbrand whirled, heart in his throat as he recognized that voice. Immediately he felt dismay, humiliation, and a strong desire to flee, or at least to hide. He also, oddly enough, felt relief. "Lady Olivia!"

She smiled at him warmly. "Oh Daran, I'm so glad you're all right. You worried me, running off like that."

His smile faded as he looked at the group behind her. Only nine people in all, including Blackfinger and Jocal. "Where's the rest of the army?"

Blackfinger spoke up before the auburn-haired cleric could. "Deserted, sir."

The news shocked him so badly he physically staggered. "What?"

The big man's face was wan. "Kyle spread the word that Nex spared Alvin an the others. After that it was impossible to make them stay short of killing them, and I-I couldn't do it." His friend looked down. "I'm sorry, Dare."

"Hey!" Aneris shouted. "We're almost to the main force! Have your heartwarming reunion there."

Marbrand held out a warning hand to the elf. They were at the tail end of the 11th now, most of the Royal Infantrymen continuing their push eastward. Saire was up on the ridge loosing spells at the skeletal dragons, and Castaway was nowhere to be found. But the rest of their tattered little army was gathered around, looking on.

He turned to face Kyle, who stood behind him. "Is this true?"

The young recruit shrugged. "I din't hear'r say nothin' about Alvin and the others."

No, and why would he? There was only one person who'd known, only one person Marbrand had told. He turned and looked hard at the cleric.

Olivia gave a small sigh and smiled at him. "I think we've reached the point where we can stop pretending, don't you?"

He stared at her blankly, then abruptly realized her eyes weren't on him but someone behind him. He whirled, right in time to take a sword hilt to the face.

The world shattered around him, the sky and the ground tilting alarmingly then trading places. Pain exploded along the side of his head as his face smashed into the hard crust of snow, but he shrugged it off and struggled to rise, turning his eyes up to see Kyle stepping away, Marbrand's blood on the pommel of his sword. The young recruit swung his blade backwards and took out one of the elves fighting to keep the undead back from them. The undead swarmed into this opening, but they ignored Kyle and attacked those around.

Dazed, he turned his head and found Olivia in time to see her withdraw her belt knife from Janis's neck, stepping away as the monk went down in a spray of blood. Blackfinger was roaring, berserk on the ground as three of the recruits fought to keep him down, while Jocal had been swarmed by undead and the other three recruits were throwing themselves at Havel, desperately trying to batter down the holy shield the undead priest had raised around himself.

"Such an obvious flaw, Marbrand," Olivia said, moving to stand over him. He swung at her feebly, vision doubled from the pain, and his gauntleted fist bounced off her own shield. She smiled down at him, that same beatific smile, but now it was hard and cruel on her soft features. Holding his gaze firmly, she raised her belt knife to lick at the blood coating the blade. "Only the weak-minded among the Cult are triggered to die if you try to search their minds. Nex did not dig nearly deep enough into my thoughts to catch me, and I was more than prepared to hide my real self from him. At which point it became easy to "test" the remaining Cultists in the camp."

"W-w . . ." he mumbled. "Why help?"

Her smile broadened, teeth stained red from the blood. "Did I really? My first act Nex knew about was to give him the scroll of undead slaying to deliver to the elves. Do you have any idea how many villages the Scarlet fools raided in answer to Nex's audacity? How many of the living they slaughtered? And here that little pup Mograine was pushing for the Crusade to ally with the Alliance army until he showed up." She laughed richly. "And then, when all hope seemed lost, along he comes to save me, and he _owes me a favor_!"

Marbrand desperately took another swing at her, as fruitless as the first. She laughed again. "Oh, I knew you'd go down fighting. Kyle wanted to kill you outright, but how could I miss this chance to savor the victory?"

"Y-you could have killed us . . . any time," he mumbled. "Why pretend . . . ally?"

"Why indeed. Oh certainly, by revealing myself I could've done a lot of damage. But you'd be surprised at what I was able to do in the shadows. And the smotherings were the least of it. Every battle, the wounded who perished at my hand, those who were fighting to protect me who fell with a knife to the back. All the whisperings I started, the talk of home, of desertion. The poor morale of the soldiers that I nurtured until it became open rebellion."

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Even as he knew it had to be true. All of the perilous secrets he'd told her or she'd overheard. All of the ill humor in the camp. And the deaths, one after another in endless succession. "You . . ."

She laughed throatily. "I feared to challenge Nex directly, but I never needed to, did I? Where's his army gone? Who's responsible for it all slipping away from him when he needed it most?"

Olivia. Sweet, lovely, tenderhearted Olivia. Who'd seemed the beacon of courage and compassion all this time. How had he been fooled? "Olivia . . ." he breathed.

"Yes, they called me that for a time. But my true name is one that sounds in the stillness, that breathes the final word. Deathwhisper, my true Brothers and Sisters call me." She smiled again that terrible red smile. "Are you ready to hear the Word of Shadow that is death, burned knight? Are you ready to serve the Master?" Marbrand shook his head slowly in denial, in disbelief, his vision blurring in the pain that motion caused. Her smile became a baring of her teeth, and she opened her mouth to speak that final word.

And it caught in her throat. Around her a shape like a bubble briefly appeared, then vanished, and Marbrand was dimly aware of drifting snow passing through to coat Olivia's fair skin.

He heard a harsh voice chanting, dark power stirring the hairs along his forearms, and looked over to see Doran Havel, missing an arm and wobbling on a broken leg, fling out his remaining arm to send a devastating spell at the surprised woman. In spite of all he knew, in spite of everything he'd just learned, still for a moment he cried out in horror, seeing this rotted apparition attacking the image of purity and loveliness.

Then the spell halted, wavered, and was pushed back. Olivia, or Deathwhisper if such was her true name, turned on Havel with hands outstretched, face suddenly ugly with hatred. "You didn't escape the Master, Havel," she hissed. "He didn't want you!" She sent a wave of holy power his way, spectral chains to bind him.

Somehow Havel managed to block the spell, and his own face was twisted in a grimace of concentration. "He doesn't want you either, bitch, or you'd be dead already."

She shrieked, and somehow in that noise a word was formed, a word that pulsed in Marbrand's head. "Tivaszath!"

Havel staggered, folding in upon himself, and she laughed. "Dead, Havel, the shadows open to you, and you barely scratched their surface. Let's see if the dead can die." She pressed her hands together, eyes narrowed in concentration, and Marbrand heard her mumbling a word so horrible his mind refused to hear it.

In doing so she turned her back to him. Marbrand looked around desperately for his sword, but it was nowhere to be found. No, there it was still at his waist. He'd sheathed it while speaking to Oli-to Deathwhisper. He was laying atop it, no way to draw, so instead he fumbled around until his fingers closed around the blade of a weapon. He pulled it to him.

Her dagger, still with Janis's blood coating it. Janis, who'd faithfully protected her for so long. He'd not seen the evil in her either. How many others had fallen to this weapon, this treacherous knife in the back?

As Deathwhisper's voice rose to a scream Marbrand lunged at her, swinging. The dagger plunged into her back, through to puncture her lung, and her scream cut off into a bubbling gasp. Marbrand drew it free and drove it in again, then again, tears falling down his cheeks. At the last he found himself kneeling atop her, staring into eyes shining with triumph even as the light left them.

"Fool," her lips formed, no sound escaping. "There is no death for those . . . who serve the Master."

But in the very next moment her words were proved false, as the spark of life within her fled, leaving only cold, empty flesh.


	24. Nerubian

Chapter Twenty-Three

Nerubian

The fireball hissed through the air, sending waves of heat lapping against her face for the split second it was close enough for her to feel the heat.

Saire sagged back, watching it fly. She was loosing the most powerful spells she could manage against the frost wyrms swooping by to strafe her kin down below, and she'd forgotten just how heavy a toll such sustained casting of powerful spells took. With her relatively large mana pool she was usually more content with weaker, less efficient spells that didn't tax her so heavily, but such efforts would be pitiful against this enemy.

The frost wyrm passing along the Pass tried to dodge her spell, but she'd anticipated for it and the fireball burned right into that frigid blue heart pulsing between the ice-white ribs. It didn't explode, but the glow flickered for a moment and the wyrm gave a chillingly lifeless bellow and jerked to its left, slamming against the cliffside there. Fractured bones heavy enough to break rock itself rained down, and when the undead dragon righted itself and beat heavily into the sky it did so short a foreleg.

Saire watched the sight with some satisfaction, not only because her attack had been so effective but because the things were trying to dodge at all. Most of the defensive spells rising from the Pass below elicited no response from the frost wyrms, save perhaps to change the target of its devastating breath attack. But for her the things dodged.

Off in the distance the fog raised by the cataclysmic crash still hung, green and blue light flaring within as, she could only assume, Lokiv continued to battle the frost wyrm he'd set himself against. She still had trouble believing what she'd seen, watching him run atop the ridge hopping from one outcrop to the next as if he had wings, and she couldn't reconcile herself with whatever madness had prompted him to take the fight into the air atop the undead dragon's own back.

Whatever his reasoning, she had a feeling when the fog cleared it would reveal the human standing atop the shattered ruins of his foe, likely in whatever form he'd changed to whose power had made her feel as if fingernails were scraping down her spine a few minutes ago.

Another bellow whipped her head around, and her preparations for the next spell ceased mid-word as she saw the three-legged undead dragon, wings pulled in tight, diving directly for her. She only had time to scream and drop to the ground, staring upwards at a gaping maw filled with wicked teeth longer than daggers and a cold blue light building where the skeletal throat began.

Then a smaller shape slammed into the frost wyrm, altering its course just enough that instead of crushing her it slammed into an outcrop twenty yards away, shattering it in a spray of rock and ice chips. She buried her face in the snow, praying none of the shrapnel was large enough to seriously injure her. The concussive force passed quickly, leaving smaller chunks to patter around her, and she lifted her face to see the frost wyrm taking to the sky, that smaller shape in swift pursuit.

She could see it clearly now, a demonic form of shadow and green flame with long ebony horns curling above a shadowy visage, massive bat-like wings held out in a gliding position as it used its terrible demonic power to give chase, one clawed hand held down at its side gathering impossible amounts of energy in a vicious spell, while the other was held outstretched, a ribbon of blue connecting it to the frost wyrm's core. She thought the spell was burning away the creature's mana, or in its case its very life force. Whatever it was doing, the frost wyrm was jerking and convulsing in the air in what almost seemed like death throes.

It made her own previous fireball seem pitiful in comparison, and it wasn't even the coup de grace.

For a moment she thought it was Lokiv up there, battling the frost wyrm with wings of his own, as naturally as if he'd always flown the skies, but a quick glance over at the fog across the battlefield showed her that the green and blue lights still raged in its midst. This was Illidan she saw, and his power made even Lokiv's seem a pale imitation.

She turned back to the battle to see that the handful of other frost wyrms were reeling, pulling back frantically and circling ever higher as a creature like an eagle made of pure flames closed on the nearest, waves of devastating energy pulsing from its beak to bathe the undead dragon in flames, even as it opened its claws in preparation to grapple with the wyrm directly.

She recognized the creature only from study, and could hardly believe she was seeing it. The bird could only be a phoenix, an elemental of the Plane of Fire who could never die as long as a single ash of its corporeal form remained. A creature of such power should be impossible to summon onto the physical plane, and phoenixes were notoriously uninterested in leaving their own plane. But she knew of one person capable of summoning it, although he'd only done so once before that she'd heard and it had been long, long ago.

Her eyes sought among the clumped officers of her people at the mouth of the pass, and found her Prince standing atop a rise, arms outstretched as energies she could never hope to wield herself raged. Even as she watched the three fiery green balls which constantly circled Kael'thas, protection and deadly threat both, sped out one after another to slam into another of the frost wyrms, exploding spectacularly and sending fragments of bone spraying across the field miles away.

Dramatic as were her Prince and his phoenix, to say nothing of Lord Illidan himself taken to the skies, even the fury of their battles was overmatched by the whirlwind which had caught up three of the farthest frost wyrms.

This was high magic, and of a sort unfamiliar to her but reminiscent of the sea and ancient powers. The winds raged there, drawing the clouds overhead into a tempest which whipped water at tremendous speeds in the whirling funnel. But the very cold of the frost wyrms worked against them now, freezing that water into shards of ice that choked the whirlwind, flying at terrible speeds. As the undead dragons thrashed and flailed in the grip of that spell their desiccated flesh was eaten away, and even the bones themselves began to erode, until the sinew which bound them together fell apart and they were flung away to crash into the ground below with thunderous detonations.

There was a slight lull in the battle, all those not fighting for their lives watched in awe as the frost wyrms which had so threatened them were devastated.

The three supreme commanders of their army, the leadership of blood elves and naga and the one who ruled them all. Nex's awe-inspiring display was made trivial by the might of Kael'thas, Vashj, and Lord Illidan himself. As if to chastise the human, to tell him that anything he could do, they could do better, that all his feats would be eclipsed by theirs.

And what message did that send to her? Perhaps that it was time she stopped throwing pebbles at a lynx and went in search of an enemy more her level.

She turned to look down at the fighting below and saw Hiezal scaling the hillside to her side. "Sunwell's bounty, Saire!" he called. "Are you insane? Even if you can tickle one of those frost wyrms enough to make it snap at you, why the hell would you ever do it?"

Saire opened her mouth to answer, but forgot to do so when her eyes slid past him to the horrific scene taking place below. Her eyes found it just in time to see the undead, Havel, loose a spell at Lady Olivia. And as she stared in shock, she saw Marbrand rise from the ground, stagger forward and fall to take up a bloody knife, which he drove into the woman's unprotected back.

Treachery, but whose? She would've thought it Havel's work, until she saw the human knight at his cowardly work. Had Marbrand gone mad? Was Havel controlling his mind?

Still staring, she absently pushed past Hiezal and stumbled down the slope.

By the time she arrived a party of naga had swarmed the position, driving back the undead and leaving the slain humans and elves in a small clear space all of their own. Havel was down, eyes fluttering as he jerked in some sort of convulsion, Blackfinger had just finished tearing his axe free of Kyle's mangled corpse, and Jocal was on the ground, blood bubbling from his lips as scarlet spread through the snow around him. Marbrand knelt over Olivia's body, looking small and broken in spite of his armor, and the noises he made were more terrible than a dying man's.

Saire stopped up on the hillside, unable to bring herself to continue forward. She had seen terrible things in her life, had watched acquaintances and people she'd grown up with torn apart by undead horrors. But few of them compared to this horrific scene, where people she'd marched beside, ate beside, fought beside, come to this end. For over a minute she just stared, as the battle raged farther away. It was Hiezal's turn to push past her, rushing towards where Jocal now lay horribly still.

Into this, limping heavily and with ash shaking loose from his naked flesh with every step, came Lokiv.

. . . . .

He arrived in time to watch Blackfinger fall, blood trickling from every joint of his lower legs and running down over his boots. Looking past his armor Nex could see a dozen wounds, some festering with the Scourge's vile poisons and plagues. Four corpses littered the ground around the big man, smiling with the promise of an eternity of damnation to beckon them into the afterlife.

Cultists. He might've wondered how they'd escaped discovery, but the answer was as plain as the blood trickling from Olivia's corpse.

Gods damn him, an unfortunate oversight.

Nex looked at the pathetic scene, at the burned, broken knight kneeling over the marble corpse of the woman he'd loved. He let the silence go on for a while longer, wondering how long Marbrand had grieved already. Then he stepped forward. "Information I wished kept secret got out," he said. "The rest of the army deserted because of it."

Marbrand slowly looked over, eyes red but dry widening in disbelief and the beginnings of outrage. "I-"

"Admit to nothing," Nex cut in harshly. "I made you a promise. If you tell me she got this information from you I'll be forced to kill you."

For an insane moment he almost thought the burned knight would do it anyway, would welcome death. But them Marbrand turned away, shuddering, and pushed to his feet. "We should burn this body and scatter the bones," he said heavily. "She called herself Deathwhipser, at the end."

Nex nodded. He had no desire to see Olivia, or Deathwhisper, come back. Marbrand walked away, back up the slope, with the directionless gait of a broken man. Nex left the treacherous cleric where she lay and moved over to Blackfinger.

The big man actually had the presence of mind to smile at him bitterly. "I didn't realize the Cult had taken more than one whore in. Ah, Daran."

"You realize you're dying, right?" Nex asked bluntly. "And there's no longer a priest to save you."

Blackfinger shut his eyes. "Good. Care to hear my dying curse, friend? It's for you."

"Not especially." Nex dropped his hand to NexTaeja's hilt, biting back the scream of agony that threatened to escape. Even with the buffer of the Vortex crystal, after suffusing himself with demonic energy enough to metamorphose the holy sword's power felt like acid coursing through his veins.

For once the thing didn't immediately rage in his head the moment he touched it. Impressed at his victory over the frost wyrm? _Save him._

_'What possible reason would I have for doing so?'_

_Because you can._

_'Saving people goes against my stated goals, human.'_

_He will cause far more destruction alive than were he to die now._

The sword was silent for a time. _'A flimsy argument. But I'll allow you my power for healing, and even show you how it's done.'_

_Why?_

_'Because I need your goodwill more than I need to allow the random destruction of minor creatures. What's a speck of dust when we have worlds to destroy?'_

_What indeed?_ Nex wondered just how full of shit the sword was; powerful as it was, it could never truly succeed in destroying even one world, let alone all the worlds scattered through the Great Dark Beyond, and all the vast powers that lurked between. Maybe NexTaeja realized that as well.

It would explain why the sword was always so pissed.

Sighing, Nex knelt beside Blackfinger and began releasing the sword's power.

. . . . .

The battle was long over, the last of the frost wyrms destroyed or driven from the sky. The few remaining Scourge forces were being pushed farther and farther back as the combined elf and naga army cleared the way ahead, but it was hardly a difficult task.

The way to the Frozen Throne was clear. The battle was almost finished.

Lewis found Marbrand sitting halfway up the slope to the ridge down which they'd come on their roundabout path. The rock he sat on was smooth and flat, almost like a bench, and his ugly notched broadsword was lying across his knees. His old friend was staring at it blankly. He hadn't seemed to notice Lewis's approach, but when he stopped a short distance away Marbrand spoke without looking up.

"I loved her," he whispered.

Lewis felt his on stab of grief, thinking of Geana. The Cult had proved that nothing was beneath them. "Yes, and she used that love against you. I'm sorry, Dare."

Marbrand looked up slowly, eyes still blank, empty of life. "Sorry?"

"That you had to suffer what I suffered."

His friend looked away. "My pain is nothing compared to yours, Lewis. If I had your strength it would be nothing."

Lewis shook his head. "Don't. Denying pain doesn't make it go away. It just hides it where it'll never heal."

With a sigh Marbrand stood, slamming his sword back into its sheath. "So? I've got more scars inside than out, old friend." He strode past him, picking his way down the slope, and as he went he called over his shoulder. "It'll be over soon. Anything else may have said, anything else he may have done, Nex is right about that at least."

Lewis watched him go, troubled. He knew a broken man when he saw one. He'd seen plenty in his day. And he knew when a man broke but had nowhere to run he turned brittle, and those sorts were the first to shatter when the fighting started. They didn't last long.

_Almost over, yes. Please, old friend, hold together until it is. You can fix a broken man, but not a dead one._

. . . . .

Nex was amused to find that the fighting had been so fierce that the elvish officers hadn't had time to set up their fancy command tent. They clustered around a cloth map spread out over the snow, although the thing wasn't in use and didn't look to have been since it was laid out. The target was in sight, maps had no more use other than a place to gather while strategies were prepared.

His amusement faded, however, when he saw how utterly exhausted the elves all looked. He himself felt like he'd torn out his insides one slow handful at a time, and nothing was more tempting than the thought of sleep or whatever approximation he could manage. Yet somehow these looked even worse.

Even Sunstrider wasn't immune to the exhaustion. If anything, he looked to have paid the toll of command on top of it; combined with the devastating spells he'd unleashed earlier, he looked as if he was barely on his feet.

"I'll allow Scourge defenses are broken," he was telling a junior officer. "Set the men to raising camp and disposing of the dead. We march for Icecrown in the morning." The Captain saluted and hurried away, and with a sigh Sunstrider looked over at Nex. For once there was no contempt in the blood elf's eyes, only deep weariness. "Human."

"As you can see, we've arrived."

Sunstrider gave a bark of harsh laughter. "So you have. Where's Kanviel? I expected him to rejoin the army days ago. He can't have been slowed like we were."

"He wasn't slowed. An army of Cultists lagging behind Menethil's main force infiltrated his army and spread plague."

The Blood Prince blanched. "Dead?"

"To the man, then raised as Scourge. We were forced to battle them to enter the Pass. Their bodies were disposed of."

He was expecting accusations, or at least bitterness, but Sunstrider's only response was a deeper sag to his shoulders. "I should have known when he didn't show up. Death stalks this land and all who walk upon it." With some effort he straightened. "Arthas and his Scourge army? We're not going to get pounded from behind while we sleep, are we?"

Nex refrained from commenting on the unfortunate choice of words. "An undead creature resembling a monstrous beetle led Menethil and his army to an underground entrance. They likely marched beneath the mountains."

Another harsh laugh. "Then he's too late. The way to the Frozen Throne lies open before us. If he survives its destruction I'll take his head myself."

Again, he ignored the unfortunate choice of words. "I assume you're aware of the Necropolis that's landed in the Pass behind us."

"I am." Sunstrider waved his dismissal. "See to your men. I'll fold you into Jharen's regiment, he lost the most."

Nex hesitated. "At present my army consists of a mage, a priest, two warriors, and a sneak."

He was surprised to see the genuine grief on Sunstrider's face. "Then you scarce fared any better than Kanviel. It's a miracle you've made it this far." The blood elf sighed again. "Wildhammer. Join your forces with his, fighting beside the Corona's Blaze regiment under the command of Captain Dor'ane."

So the old Ranger was still alive, and in command. That was a pleasant surprise. Nex had been starting to think Sunstrider wasn't capable of promoting an officer who wasn't a complete ass. He saluted and turned away.

Marbrand and the others were waiting around a fire in the elvish camp, sharing a flask of something passed around by the infantrymen there. Apparently the fighting had been brutal enough that anyone living was a welcome sight. Only Nova looked up when he arrived. "Well?"

"We're with the dwarves. Your friend Dor'ane is leading your old army and Falstan's riflemen."

The elf laughed. "I figured he'd have the sense to get out the moment he set foot on Azeroth. I sure wish I had."

Marbrand abruptly stood. "We take the Glacier tomorrow?" Nex nodded. "Then one day more. One day, Nex, and I'm free."

Looking at his gaunt, strained features, Nex doubted the burned knight would ever be free again. But he only nodded again.

. . . . .

The Corona's Blaze camp looked in good order. If nothing else, all the marching they'd done to Netherstorm had served to at least stiffen their discipline in harsh environments.

If anything, the dwarf camp was even more organized. No surprise considering all the dwarves were veterans, and no strangers to the cold, harsh climate of their own mountain home.

As soon as Falstan caught sight of them the dwarf roared and rushed forward, catching Marbrand in a crushing grip and lifting him, armor and all. He tried to do the same with Blackfinger but his sturdy strength failed him.

His enthusiasm faded a bit, however, when he saw how few of them there were. "Where's the others? Alvin 'n the boy 'n yer forty year old squire 'n all?"

Saire watched Marbrand's face darken, saw how he pulled away. And she pulled away too, unable to bear the thought of hearing again all they'd suffered on the way here. She stood a short distance away, out of earshot and facing north as if deep in thought. She noticed Lokiv was doing the same, equally far from her as from the others. But they weren't fooling anyone, as evidenced by the fact that when Falstan gave a cry of grief loud enough to wake a hibernating yeti neither of them jumped.

She shivered, wishing Hiezal was here. He'd slipped off, to gather information or steal supplies or gods knew what. Who knew, maybe he had another enemy in camp he wanted to kill.

After a while she made her way to the fire where the others had gathered, eating a thin watery soup. Marbrand was eating mechanically, not seeming to taste anything, while Blackfinger was trying to be polite as he conversed with Falstan, although neither one seemed all that intent on what they were talking about. The mood was dismal, which was no surprise; had she even heard anyone laugh since coming to Northrend? She must have, but she couldn't remember it now.

It seemed the topic they'd decided to pretend to talk about was weapons. "Your men are oddly intent on cleaning and sharpening their axes and making sure the heads are seated firmly to the handles on their hammers," the big man was saying. "But meanwhile your guns just sit in piles. Last time we camped together your people cradled them like babies, spent hours cleaning and polishing them after every fight."

"The cold, laddie," Falstan growled. "It's makin' me men's weapons jam. They won't fire. Or even worse, they'll fire into a bore filled with frost they've forgotten to clean out and the guns explode in their hands. We been using the powder fer mines or explosives 'n struggling to remember what old Stumpy taught us 'bout melee combat. Hal's been having more fun'n he should."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Your men are right terrors with those muskets. What about the mortars?"

"Eh, they work fine. Long as the payload don't freeze t' the tube and blow us all up, we should be okay."

"It's surprising all the same. You must be used to fighting in the cold, haven't you encountered this problem before?"

Falstan seemed offended. "Aye, laddie, we've fought our share of winter brawls. But this cold ain't natural, ye hafta have seen that. It seems to eat away at equipment, spread frost where there's no humidity. Ain't you seen yer own gear failing ye?"

Blackfinger shrugged. "My armor and weapon were made by demons. If it'll withstand that corruption, what's a little cold?"

A shout interrupted the conversation, and Saire bolted to her feet, looking over. A silvery-haired elf in flowing mage's robes was pushing through the snow their way. When she caught sight of Saire she squealed and picked up the pace. "Tyene?" Saire said. "What are you-" the rest of it was cut off with a grunt of surprise as the other mage threw her arms around her and squeezed tight.

Saire went stiff, but after a moment returned the platinum blond's embrace with equal fervency. She hadn't known Tyene cared at all, let alone this much.

The mage pulled back slightly, grinning. "I've missed you. You're the only mage in the cadre who isn't completely insane."

"It's good to see you too," she replied uncertainly.

Tyene caught her hand and began tugging it like an eager little girl. "Come on, I'll show you where the mages' tent is. You can tell me all about the adventures you've had."

Saire resisted, reluctant but firm. "Tyene, my place is with the humans and dwarves."

The mage paused in her tugging, looking back with a frown. "What?"

"I've fought beside them all this time. I'm going to stay with them until the Frozen Throne."

The blond looked disappointed, but after a moment she smiled sadly. "Well, I did say you were the only one in the cadre who wasn't insane. Too bad, I was looking forward to you sleeping next to me again." Without warning Tyene stepped closer, catching her around the waist, pulling their bodies together, and pressing her lips to Saire's fiercely. Saire wasn't shy in returning the kiss, and after a moment Tyene's hands slid down lower, and lower. Somewhere behind them she heard one of the dwarves make a strangled sound.

Then the blond mage was pulling away, blue eyes meeting hers teasingly. "_Really_ looking forward to it," she whispered.

With a last squeeze, she let Saire go and walked away.

. . . . .

Tyene yelped as Hiezal stepped away from the tent and into her path. "Where the hell did you come from?" she demanded, eyes starting to glow a dangerous purple-blue.

Hiezal quickly held up his hands. "No harm intended, my beautiful flower riding the arcane winds. By the Sunwell, your hair shines like mercury."

The mage slowly lowered her hands, eyes dimming. "What do you want?"

He smiled. "Why, the same thing you do. To see you erotically entwined with the copper-haired goddess you just left. I can make it happen, with one condition."

The platinum blond scowled. "I don't need help getting into a lover's bed." Still, it wasn't an elf's habit to ignore offers, even ones they intended to refuse. "What condition?"

His smile broadened. "Why, only that I be there with you, your guide through our mutual object of desire's garden of earthly delights."

Tyene gave him a long, considering look, and Hiezal felt a moment of hope that she'd accept. Then she laughed softly and turned away. "A generous offer, but I only bed women."

Hiezal drew himself up in outrage. "Only bed women? And you call yourself a blood elf?" She paused to give him a flat look, and he raised his hands again. "I mean hey, no problem my fair flower of the frozen wastes, I only bed women too. Usually. It's something we have in common!"

She gave him another long, appraising look, then laughed and turned away again. "You're too masculine. And, to be perfectly honest, your face isn't your best asset."

Hiezal glared at her retreating backside. "Oh yeah? Well your ass isn't your best facet!" She kept walking, and Hiezal turned away and jammed his hands into his pockets, scowling.

Damn, that had been a really good comeback, too. He'd have to remember it.

. . . . .

The next morning dawned clear and cold. Elves cursed as they pushed out of their tents, dwarves huddled deeper into their hoods, and naga sluggishly uncoiled from their piles of sleeping bodies, murlocs scurrying to pack everything up.

Nobody wasted any time preparing to march, and in fact Hiezal saw many leaving behind everything but their weapons and a few necessities. Assuming things went well, the Frozen Throne would be shattered by midday, and they may even make camp again in this very spot. There was no other choice if they were to go south through the Pass once more.

Pity, there was probably a lot of valuable stuff being left behind. He wished he had that fancy pocket portal Saire had told him Lokiv had stowed on him. He could've filled it with loot and moved to some place where war was a joke, like Stormwind or Kalimdor.

Too bad he'd given that ugly gold necklace to Saire. She'd just have to support them both on it.

Before the elvish buglers sounded first warning most of the army was already in position and ready to march. Hiezal stood beside Falstan and Dor'ane, with Havel and Lokiv a step behind. The others were back among the Corona's Blaze elves and dwarves, who incredibly enough were mingling fairly openly. Even the humans earned no hostility on this day.

"Well, here we are again," Dor'ane said, stamping his feet for circulation.

"Right, here we are. And here I always figured I'd be the one in command once I sli-I mean once Redcrest kicked."

The old Ranger snorted and glanced back at Lokiv. "I understand I have you to thank for this promotion."

"If you're talking about Redcrest's death you'll have to look elsewhere."

Dor'ane grinned. "Oh believe me, I'm not looking. The bastard was born to be knifed, you ask me."

"Din't think it was ye anyway, laddie," Falstan said. "Plenny o' folks in camp taking a dislike ta him, and from all I hear who kin blame 'em?"

"Me included," Hiezal put in cheerfully. "You can't imagine how often I dreamed of waiting in his tent with my knife blacked out with ship's tar, crouched just inside the entrance waiting for him to come in. Standing perfectly still as he walks by and reaches into his desk for a flask of something something, then slipping up behind him, grabbing the stupid red crest of his helmet and yanking his head back, then . . ." he trailed off, noticing that everyone was staring at him. "What?"

"That seemed a wee bit descriptive, laddie," Falstan said.

Hiezal grinned. "I'm creative in my vindictiveness." Lokiv was glaring at him, obviously displeased at him practically confessing in front of everyone.

Thankfully at that moment Saire stormed up, although once he saw the look on her face he wished it'd been Kael'thas with a noose and a squad of Justicars.

"With me," she snapped, grabbing his arm. He willingly let her drag him away from the others. "Is it true you propositioned Tyene with a threesome?" she demanded as soon as she could say it without half the camp hearing.

Hiezal blinked. "Why are you so mad? After I watched you two locking lips and groping in front of everyone I figured she'd be up for it."

"You unbelievable asshole. You don't even know her and you're asking her to come to bed with us?"

He arched an eyebrow. "From what I've heard, with Tyene familiarity with her lovers isn't exactly a requisite. I've heard she even beds humans, if you can . . . believe . . ." he trailed off, remembering too late who he was talking to.

She stamped her foot, having little success on the hard-packed ice. "And what if I told you Kendal Arstid came around to me asking for the same thing?"

"What, Kendal the raven-haired leopard who half the elves in camp are swooning after? Hell, if he's willing we'd double-"

She slapped him. Then, bristling with rage, she turned and stalked away.

"Was that just a hypothetical?" he called after her. "Now you've got my hopes up!" Her only response was a rude gesture over one shoulder.

For almost a full minute afterward there was total silence along the line as everyone stared at him. Then Falstan ambled over, a smile quirking his bearded lips. "That yer lover, Castaway?"

"What gave it away?"

"Well the yelling 'n slapping 'n overall high-pitched tone of voice were some pretty good clues."

Hiezal sighed, staring after her. "Blood elves can be surprisingly catty bitches."

The dwarf nodded sympathetically. "Aye. And their females're jerks too."

"I know, right?" It took Hiezal a few seconds to realize what Falstan had just said, then he snapped his head around. "Hey! Not cool, buddy."

Laughing, the dwarf made his way back to the front of the Corona's Blaze line.

. . . . .

It didn't take long on the march before Nex realized he had some problems with it.

First off was the pace. Hostile enemy territory, terrifying undead all around, and they were moving at somewhere between an amble and a slow walk. Having spent some time subsisting naturally he had an appreciation for the limits of an unenhanced body, but even so he felt the slowness of pace was excessive. Was it something about large groups of people that prevented moving at speed?

The second problem took him a few minutes to realize. In fact they'd been marching across the flat plain surrounding Icecrown Glacier for almost five minutes before Nex paused, frowning. "Why are we turning aside?"

Dor'ane glanced over at him. "What, you mean not making directly for the Glacier? Look at the spiral, the ramp begins on the northern side. We're heading for that."

"The course we're setting takes us several miles from the base of the Glacier all the way around. We're adding over an hour to the march."

The Ranger shrugged. "Prince Kael'thas's orders. Doesn't want us triggering any nasty traps the Scourge might've set for us. And if we get close enough the Lich King himself might be able to hit us."

"That's ridiculous. The Frozen Throne's power isn't so direct."

Dor'ane glanced over at him again. "And you're basing this on what, the fact that he hasn't shown anything like that before? Stupid assumption to make, that hasn't means can't."

"Is assuming we've already won any more intelligent? We should be making all haste. Stormrage should be flying ahead." The others simply stared at him, and Nex shook his head. "All right, maybe nothing that reckless. But we should be marching with all haste."

The others could only shrug. Whether or not they agreed made little difference, since the pace was set by those ahead.

But Nex was partially vindicated roughly an hour later when a commotion from behind slowed the march. Runners and messengers passed by in both directions, although nobody bothered to stop and tell the rank and file what was going on. After roughly five minutes the march continued, only now the pace had doubled. After even longer word finally trickled back to them.

"Scourge forces have been spotted coming quickly from behind," the sub-lieutenant told Dor'ane. "Their numbers essentially double ours."

Nex cursed. "Menethil. He made it through the underground way after all."

"It doesn't matter at this point," the minor officer said. "We'll make the Glacier before he gets his undead in position to attack. He's lost the race."

Nex extended his second sight, and sure enough they'd changed course to a more direct route to the bottom of the spiral leading up the Glacier. "Have orders been given for if the Scourge catch up?"

The officer nodded. "Keep marching. We'll reassess once we reach the Glacier." Without another word the young elf ran farther down the line to the officers of the next regiment.

"Less than an hour to get there, I'd say," Marbrand said quietly. He'd slipped out of the ranks of elves to listen to the exchange. "So close. Will Kael'thas authorize mages to portal us back to the Eastern Kingdoms?"

Dor'ane laughed. "Can't wait to get out of this place, Sir?" Marbrand's only reply was a steady, blank stare, and the Ranger shrugged. "Can't say."

"I can," Saire cut in. "The moment we're done here I'm gone."

"With me?" Nova asked, slipping an arm around her shoulders.

She shrugged him off. "Sure you wouldn't rather stay with Tyene?" she asked sweetly.

"Sure, bring her along. The more the merrier."

"Yes, you _would_ say that."

Marbrand moved over to stand in front of them, back stiff. "Mistress Saire, my contract comes due with this victory. Might I purchase passage through your portal for myself and my remaining men?"

Saire's expression turned almost sad. She seemed to regret her half-sincere banter with Nova as she replied. "You don't need to purchase anything, Marbrand. When we leave, you'll be with us."

Heartwarming. Nex turned and strode away up the line.

"Where are you going?" Dor'ane called.

He glanced back. "To the front. I'll be behind my master when he ascends the Glacier."

"What, looking for glory?"

"No, just a promise kept."

The line of marching soldiers was long, and Nex was in no hurry. He paced himself to only slightly faster than the soldiers around him were walking, intending to reach the front of the line just as they reached their destination. His timing wasn't perfect, because he was still some hundred people back when the soldiers stopped once more. Runners once again rushed down the line, shouting orders to turn and prepare for a possible Scourge assault. Nex increased his pace to the front.

The officers clustered there had also stopped, gathered together in expectant silence, and at their head stood the three leaders. Icecrown Glacier lay before them, a long, spiraling ramp of ice and snow leading up to the peak, which was constantly illuminated by an eerie bluish-white glow.

The three were conferring with a few lesser officers when Nex arrived, and looked on the verge of breaking away to continue forward, to the base of the ramp a mile or so away.

Sunstrider, looking far more rested than one night should have accounted for, glanced over at him. "You're out of place, human." Apparently the rest had restored his arrogance as well as his strength.

Nex met his gaze calmly. "No I'm not." Surprised, Sunstrider glanced over at Stormrage, but their master didn't acknowledge them. After a moment the blood elf shrugged, making no more argument. Vashj seemed to have eyes only for the final obstacle ahead.

"Come," Stormrage finally said. He started forward, flanked by Sunstrider and Vashj. Nex took his place behind those two, forming a diamond pattern with himself at the rear, and behind him powerful warriors from among the blood elves and naga followed.

Just short of upward slope that signaled the start of the ramp Sunstrider abruptly slowed. "A moment, my Lord," he said, raising a hand as if feeling the air. "I sense something . . . elusive."

Stormrage stopped, the green behind his blindfold flaring. "Yes. Very subtle." He strode forward, hand outstretched, and before he'd taken more than half a dozen steps his fingers crumpled as if an invisible wall impeded their progress.

Nex hadn't felt it before, but as soon as the barrier halted Stormrage's hand he felt the energy crackle into being in a six-inch wide circle around his master's fingers. He focused sharper on his second sight, stretching out his own hand, and caught a glimpse of a latent barrier, vast beyond comprehension and barely noticeable. Then Stormrage drew back and the barrier vanished from view.

"A dome over the entire glacier," Vashj hissed. "A ward which activates a barrier on contact."

Stormrage nodded and stretched out his hand to once again test the barrier. "Prince Kael'thas, my Lady," his gaze fell over Nex, "you. Advise me."

Vashj and Sunstrider immediately moved forward to feel the barrier. Nex followed behind, testing it with his fingers. It felt like nothing so much as a glass wall, perfectly smooth, but it made his fingers tingle, and more so when he tried to feed power into it to test the spell matrix. The longer he kept his hand touching it, the greater the discomfort became. So it was powerful, invisible until you literally ran into it, and when you did it caused rapidly increasing discomfort. A clever way to make a barrier difficult to study.

"This is powerful," Sunstrider said, lips twisted in annoyance. "And not only powerful, but it channels that vast power only to the location of attempted breaches. In complexity and strength it rivals the Inner Gate, the magical defenses that protected Silvermoon itself. Even the traitor Arthas and his innumerable Scourge could not pass through that inviolate ward without assembling the key."

Stormrage scowled. "Then we will not pass through this barrier?"

"There is no spell which cannot be broken," Vashj said from the other side, still intently studying the invisible wall. "With our powers combined we might find a way. But not quickly, and we would be left weakened for it."

Stormrage shook his head. "Arthas rides at our very heels. We have no time to waste on such a venture. There are no gates which are not meant to be opened, if we can find the key."

"Perhaps first we should understand more about the creatures who built this, and their style of magical architecture," Nex offered. "The constructs powering this spellform are outside my area of expertise. Does anyone recognize them?"

Vashj hissed softly. "Yesss, human. I have not seen it for a long while, but this is similar to Qiraji High Priest magic."

Sunstrider glanced at her sharply. "Qiraji? The silithid bugs?"

The naga lady laughed. "Denigrate them if you wish, high elf, but their civilization outdates even yours or mine."

The elf prince waved that away impatiently. "I've seen similar creatures among the Scourge ranks. Undead bugs identified as nerubians, natives of Northrend. Distant cousins of the Qiraji, I would guess. My people recently captured a nest of living nerubians and have been torturing them for information. The creatures are blindly aggressive, but in their own way intelligent, and they claim to oppose the Lich King. Is it possible the Lich King has raised nerubian casters and used them to create this protection around the Frozen Throne?"

Vashj shook her head emphatically. "There is no feel of the Lich King's magic upon this barrier."

A cough from the blood elf dignitaries watching a short distance behind turned them around, and one of the senior officers stepped forward and went to one knee. "Your pardon for interrupting, sir, but I believe I know something of this."

"And you are?" Stormrage demanded.

The blood elf's shoulders hunched slightly. "Lord Captain Vallinas, my Lord. I've been questioning the nerubians for information under the orders of Prince Kael'thas."

"Do they know about this?" Sunstrider asked.

"I believe so, yes. The nerubians tell us little of themselves or their plans, and that extracted with great effort, but when it comes to the Lich King they are far more vocal. From what I've been able to gather their race has been brought to the brink of extinction by the Scourge, and yet they still seem certain they're on the verge of defeating the Lich King. They spoke of a time years ago when the dead first began walking, and how their High Priests followed the signs to the mountain of Frozen Light, Icecrown Glacier I would assume. After months spent trying to fight their way to the Frozen Throne they withdrew and instead pooled all their greatest magics to create a prison-wall through which no enemy could pass to threaten them."

Sunstrider laughed harshly. "Ironic, considering that was the exact solution the night elves and their allies settled upon when they erected the Gates of Ahn'Quiraj and locked the Qiraji inside for all eternity. Perhaps the nerubians took a page from their enemy's book and attempted to do the same."

"A futile attempt," Stormrage said, hand closing into a fist against the barrier. "No meager wall can block the Lich King's influence. The nerubians may have locked the Frozen Throne and his select servants within this barrier, but it did not help them in the end. In fact, now that we stand where they once did their little desperate measure has become our enemy's greatest protection." He turned to Vashj. "What do you know of the Qiraji rituals? A barrier this powerful could not be easily built to be inviolate. There must be some weakness."

"The Qiraji used massive slave efforts to create grand and complex structures, then sacrificed the slaves in vast rituals to tap dark powers. Some doomsayers claim that their High Priests drew power from the Old Gods themselves. If the nerubians used similar methods it's likely the power for this barrier is drawn from focal points around the perimeter, likely some sort of ziggurat or obelisk. Since the barrier was meant to keep the Scourge trapped within it's possible that these structures will be accessible from the outside, and securing them will make it easier to control or destroy the barrier."

Stormrage nodded. "Send the scouts out along the barrier in both directions. Our primary goal must be to get to the Frozen Throne before Arthas, but this barrier will foil his efforts as it does ours. Lady Vashj, you will go south and east around the barrier with your naga and find a suitable choke point where the Scourge advance can be slowed. Prince Kael'thas, you will go south and west and do the same. Do not engage when the cause is hopeless, my minions. If you are overwhelmed fall back and regroup. We must find a means of passing through this barrier quickly, and your efforts are solely to buy us time."

"Shall I serve under Prince Sunstrider's command again, my Lord?" Nex asked.

Stormrage turned to him. "No. I have a far more important mission for you and your irregulars, human."

Nex fought to keep his face impassive. Important was usually synonymous with dangerous, and on a campaign that was practically suicidal that didn't inspire confidence. "I live to serve," he said stiffly.

"And that is why you still live." Stormrage turned south, staring at Icecrown Glacier as if seeing past it. "If this barrier is powered by constructs, it stands to reason that they are placed at equal distances all around the barrier. Which means that there must be some to the south, directly in the path of Arthas and his approaching army."

Nex stiffened. "You want me to try to take and hold such a location against the might of the Scourge?"

"I do. I believe you're clever enough with spellforms that when you find the constructs you'll be able to turn them to my purposes. Take Dor'ane's forces and go with all haste. Hold them for as long as you are able."

Every instinct told him to refuse, or to accept and then flee with his people. But one thing decided him. All would fail if they couldn't get to the Frozen Throne. He would remain a slave, humanity and ultimately Azeroth would remain in peril to the Scourge, and Stormrage would punish failure. If he could snatch these constructs from Arthas's very teeth and co-opt them then Stormrage would have a chance to fight his way to the Frozen Throne and destroy it.

Any other outcome, anything else he could do, would make all the sacrifices they had made fighting this far, and their almost certain deaths as they tried to flee back to their ships, a complete waste. The Scourge closed in around them, and it was either victory or death.

His people would bear the brunt of that. They would be the spearhead, the vanguard, and their chances were grim. But they did have a chance.

Stormrage seemed to sense his hesitation. "This task is not beyond you, human. You've shown your proficiency at infiltration and theft. You've done the impossible before. Do it again now. Steal the southern obelisk or obelisks out from under the very noses of the Scourge."

Nex nodded, but as he turned away he entertained no illusions about the role his force was to play.

An enemy such as the Scourge, a mindless destructive force controlled only by the will of a handful of powerful leaders, grew ever the weaker the more its attention was divided. His "theft" of the obelisk was obviously meant to be nothing more than a diversion, to allow Stormrage and his armies to take the other obelisks and form up to push down and annihilate the Scourge, taking the final obelisks over the shattered corpse of the Traitor Prince.

The Corona's Blaze regiment was lounging when he arrived, but the dwarves stood ready. At their head Marbrand waited. "What are our orders?"

"We're to go south with all haste."

In spite of himself the burned knight paled. "Have we come to this again? Does your master know of no better use for us than to needlessly throw us away? Do _you_, Lord Nex?"

Nex remained unperturbed as his news rippled through his forces, filling all with dismay. "Who says he's throwing us away?"

"How is he not?" Blackfinger growled. There was a dangerous, almost mad light in the big warrior's eyes. Months of attrition, betrayal, and loss, spiced with the contempt of their allies, had taken its toll, and he was obviously ready to snap. "The Scourge approaches from the south. If we march right into them they'll roll right over us with barely a pause, and there's no other way to manage this."

"Isn't there? Stormrage called me a sneak and a thief, almost as if telling me to use those attributes here. So I believe I will." Confusion all around, but not much lessening of despair. "We'll sneak right past the Scourge, let them fight past us to the eastern and western obelisks, and take the southern one while they're busy."

Nova gave a ragged laugh. "Sneak?" He turned and gestured, his arm sweeping the broad, flat expanse of snowy plain around them. "How exactly are we going to manage that?"

He finally let himself smile, showing his long canines. "We have a few squads of dwarves and a fire mage, figure it out."


	25. The South Obelisk

Chapter Twenty-Four

The South Obelisk

"Figure it out," Saire muttered. She should've figured it was bad news when she was personally mentioned in a plan. As the mist cleared she wiped the sweat off her brow and sagged back against the wall to her left.

She should be thankful for small things, at least. Lokiv had said they had one fire mage, but in fact they had two. For whatever reason Tyene had decided to accompany them, and while she couldn't wield the raw power Saire managed she was much better at taking Lokiv's directions and using them to funnel her flames into minute cracks, widening them with a surprisingly small amount of mana.

As soon as Saire stepped away a team of dwarves darted forward, pickaxes, mattocks, and hammer-and-chisel put to quick work tearing at the ice she'd softened. She stepped back to let them work, and slender arms wrapped around her while a chin dropped down to rest on her shoulder.

"I didn't think I'd be wasting all my mana on this," Tyene murmured wearily. "A direct assault on the obelisk the Scourge has easiest access to sounded a lot more heroic than it's turning out to be."

"Stop," Lokiv commanded sharply behind them. Immediately the dwarven tunnelers froze, some mid-swing, while behind them the long line of soldiers packing the narrow tunnel went still, some going as far as to hold their breaths.

Saire couldn't hear or otherwise sense anything, but ten or so feet overhead undead were tramping across the ice plain, north to challenge the western obelisk and the blood elves holding it while her Prince attuned them all to the barrier. She didn't know if silence would keep their presence completely hidden, since some undead seemed able to sense the living, but the thought of being trapped down here with ghouls clawing down through the ice after them was horrifying enough for her to keep completely still. Tyene was holding her breath.

After several tense moments Lokiv nodded. The dwarves, staring back at him, got to work once more, tearing into ice and frozen earth softened and rotted by her spells. A few were shoveling it into sacks and scuttling back along the line with it to deposit behind them. Enough air trickled through from the entrance to the tunnel that they could breathe, but it felt close and stuffy, an odd sensation when it was so bitterly cold.

After a few minutes the dwarves' desperate digging began producing clangs and the screech of metal on ice hard as rock, suggesting it was their turn again. Tyene sighed and slipped forward as the dwarves retreated, and Lokiv moved forward as well, brow furrowed in concentration, to point at the weak places so the other mage could exploit them.

"Slip past them," Marbrand complained from back behind the dwarves. "All right, I understand that well enough. But even as fast as the dwarves are, and with the mages exhausting themselves in the effort, at the pace we're digging the battle will be over before we ever get anywhere close to the obelisk." Lokiv ignored the complaint, at least until Marbrand pushed past Saire to confront him directly. Then he gave Tyene some final directions and turned.

"The crevasse is only nine feet three and a half inches farther on. It angles almost due south and has multiple fractures leading in other directions. Once we get to it we'll make much better time."

"Does it go directly to the obelisk?" the scarred knight demanded.

Lokiv sighed. "You know I can't answer that." Ah yes. Saire'd been surprised to learn that the human's vaunted second sight didn't extend much farther than a mile. Before Marbrand could raise further complaints Lokiv continued. "All we need is to get past the bulk of the Scourge army. There are enough hills and ridges in the ice south of here to hide our presence as we continue on." Marbrand continued to stand there glaring, and Lokiv's eyes narrowed. "You're interfering with the work. Go rejoin the others."

After a moment's angry silence Marbrand complied. At the front of the tunnel, completely ignoring the discussion behind her, Tyene was getting to work, a small line of fire shooting from a fingertip to probe into the ice. Saire stared at the dirty ice and tried to calculate how long it would take to dig ten feet through this given their current pace.

Ten minutes, at least. She hoped the battle was going well for her people up above.

In the end it only took five minutes, because she failed to take into account how with only a few feet between them and the crevasse it was possible to punch through around the edges and then send the entire remaining sheet of ice crashing down into the depths of the crevasse.

Falstan edged forward and stared down. "Ye've got a drop o' twenny feet or so, laddie."

Lokiv didn't react to the news. "Problem?"

The dwarf grinned. "Nah. What sort o' dwarf don't carry rope with 'im? We'll have everyone down in minutes."

The human nodded. "I'll scout ahead." He stepped off the edge and drifted down into the crack in the ice, which was brighter than the tunnel had been since it opened up to the sky in a few places. Still, with the way the walls of the crevasse bulged and twisted he disappeared after only a few dozen yards.

Saire watched the dwarves set up their rope system, then allowed herself to be the first lowered into the crack, burly dwarf arms easily managing her weight. Tyene didn't bother with the ropes, instead wasting a little mana to slowfall down at Saire's side. Hiezal, who'd been at the back as a sort of rearguard in case of attack, appeared and began climbing down along the jagged ice, shunning the ropes entirely. Of the three it was a race to see who descended the quickest, one that Tyene won.

By the time Saire set foot on solid ice once more she could tell something was wrong. The crevasse should've gotten more and more narrow until they were wedged in it, but instead it ended in a flat path that was almost as wide as the tunnel they'd dug. Like the tunnel, the ice around her bore the marks of being cut and shaped, although by no tools she recognized.

"We're not alone here," Hiezal murmured, dropping to the ground beside her. He landed lightly for all that he'd fallen almost ten feet.

"Kobolds?" Tyene asked, leaning closer to inspect the markings. "We saw signs of the little rats on our way north."

"They wouldn't have dug a tunnel this wide," Hiezal said. "Little bastards keep their holes as small as possible so predators can't get at them."

The platinum blond shuddered. "What creature in its right mind would eat a kobold?"

"From what I hear you wouldn't be above it," Hiezal shot back, somewhat nastily. Still smarting about being rejected, then tattled on?

Saire ignored them and started down the tunnel, directing a globe of arcane light in front of her. She could see odd strands coating some of the walls, like spiderwebs, and dark bits and pieces frozen in the ice that looked too angular and shiny to be rock. "I think this is the work of giant spiders or some other insects," she said.

Before too long Marbrand pushed past her, and behind Blackfinger was bellowing for more haste. Now that they had an open path the burned knight wanted to make up for the time they'd wasted waiting for dwarves to tunnel. So they moved almost at a jog, following the ravine south.

She saw no sign of Lokiv as they continued on, but there were plenty more signs of whatever creature or creatures had created this path. Fragments of eggshells, a frozen egg cracked and rotten, bits of chitin. It didn't look like the sort even a giant spider would have, too thick and sturdy. Whatever it was, she wouldn't want to fight whatever was protected by such a carapace.

Before too long they reached a crack in the ravine that cut southwest. Like the one they were in, this new cut was also smoothed and carved into a path. Lokiv waited at its head, brow furrowed in concentration as he extended his second sight.

"We're not alone down here," Marbrand said as he paused beside the blindfolded human.

Lokiv turned his head to face him. "No, we're not." He started forward along the path. "Come, it's not much farther now."

The scarred knight hurried to catch up. "You're not worried that we're going to be attacked by some Light-forsaken creature down here? What made these paths anyway?"

"I recognize the cuts in the ice. They match those in the rock of the underground city Menethil led the Scourge into. The elves call the creatures nerubians."

"And do these creatures serve the Lich King?"

Lokiv paused and glanced back. "Well, we know of at least one that does. It's a bit too big for these paths, though." He paused again. "Of course, the thing's front claws did look ideal for tunneling."

"Funny," Falstan muttered from a short ways behind Saire. "Love the thought o' some big beetle catching us down here and scatterin' us like ninepins."

Lokiv broke into a trot, and for the next ten minutes there was silence. She barely noticed that the path was angling upwards until they reached the end of the crevasse, which formed a ramp up to the world above. Lokiv barely paused in running up this ramp, at least until Marbrand called after him. "Wait! Where does this come up?"

The blind human glanced back. "Exactly where it would if it was created by nerubians . . . the base of the obelisk itself."

. . . . .

The obelisk was a four-sided spire rising almost thirty feet into the air. It rested atop a stone platform that was surprisingly ornate in its austerity, with five tall, wide steps leading up to it.

Around the platform and scattered about its base were the ruins of half a dozen revenants. Flowing steel chain, plate armor, massive weapons. They looked to have been giants in life, raised in death to guard the obelisk and prevent its easy access. By the corpses of dozens of undead scattered about it was obvious they'd tried their best.

Nex was just glad it was Menethil who'd weakened his forces destroying the formidable guardians.

He turned to Marbrand, who was looking around warily. They could see signs of Scourge having marched north after taking this obelisk, the tracks splitting to angle northwest and northeast around the invisible obstacle of the barrier. "Arrange our forces defensively around the obelisk. Have Hal and the dwarves lay out any mines they may have. We'll need everything."

"Damn straight we will," Blackfinger muttered, cresting the lip of the ramp and taking his own look around.

Nex ignored the big man and turned, mounting the tall steps with effort until he stood directly before the flat-sided black stone with its surface completely covered in runes. There he paused, frowning at the feel of the Lich King's power which already permeated the obelisk and had set some of the runes to glowing a cold blue or vile green.

The big undead nerubian, that Crypt Lord who'd led Menethil beneath the mountains, must have also told the Traitor Prince how to work the attunement sorcery. There was no other way to account for the haste with which Menethil had managed to attune this pillar to the Scourge and move on. Assuming Vashj, Sunstrider, and Stormrage didn't have that advantage of familiarity, it could mean big trouble for his master's assault.

"What is it, my Lord?" Marbrand demanded. "How long will it take you to do what must be done?"

He turned. "Menethil's already attuned this obelisk to his forces. I'll need to undo his work before beginning the process of attunement for humans, elves, and naga."

"Not goblins or dwarves?" Hal demanded, not showing his usual customary grin.

"I wouldn't do it for humans, either, if I didn't want to scale the Glacier myself," Nex replied. "Do you have any idea how difficult this process is going to be?"

"So ye're ta leave us out with the Scourge all about?" Falstan demanded.

Nex turned to face the dwarf. "Are you saying you'd like to challenge the sorcery of the Frozen Throne?"

Falstan hesitated in answering, but before he could Marbrand spoke. "Enough of this. Lord Nex, get to work, the Scourge could discover our presence at any time."

"I assure you, they'll know of us the moment I begin. The longer I wait, the farther away they'll be."

The burned knight shook his head grimly. "Can't you see it? The elves have already engaged the Scourge to the west, and the naga are about to be assailed at the eastern obelisk. No, of course you can't see it, can you? Start now."

Without even responding Nex turned back to the obelisk. Behind him he heard Marbrand barking orders, arranging the elves and dwarves and setting the goblin to planting mines.

Marbrand was right, haste was needed.

It was a temptation to let Menethil's attunement of the Scourge stand and begin working on his own attunements. His fear, however, was that Menethil would be employing that very same tactic, assuming the southern obelisk his and his alone. If somehow Stormrage's forces were driven from the other three obelisks and the Scourge completed the attunement process, it might be that both sides would be attuned, but the Scourge would be in position to get to the path up Icecrown Glacier before the elves and naga could take and hold it.

If, however, all four obelisks were attuned for them, but the southern wasn't attuned for the Scourge, Menethil or one of his chief lieutenants would have to swing back down to complete the attunement process once again. If by some stroke of luck Menethil was the only one capable of such a feat it would be a tremendous delay for him, one that might secure Stormrage his victory.

So he got to work unraveling the attunement. Nerubian sorcery was completely alien to him, and the elegance of Menethil's work suggested that he had indeed been coached on how to tweak this ward. If Nex hadn't had his second sight to guide him he wouldn't have even known where to begin the process.

Even so, the strength of the nerubian sorcery made probing it with his second sight painful, like looking directly at the sun would have been had he still had eyes, although of course damaging in an entirely different way. As he pushed his sight to reveal more and more intricate details of the obelisk's secrets the pounding in his head became almost enough to knock him off-balance. He sank to his knees in spite of his best efforts, drawing on his power and desperately using it to scribe the glyphs needed to erase Menethil's work.

Thankfully the process, while excruciating, wasn't particularly power-intensive. The attunement process was obviously meant to be relatively easy for anyone who knew its secrets. Never a short process, certainly, and one that even Menethil must've spent over an hour on, but it wouldn't necessarily drain too much of his power. Which was good, because he could already sense his efforts drawing unfriendly attention.

By the time he completed this task, it was likely he'd need every bit of power remaining to him.

. . . . .

Marbrand wasn't used to forming a line to accommodate riflemen. Archers, yes, he'd worked with extensively, particularly the elves Lady Alleria had brought to Draenor. The problem was archers could angle their bows up over the heads of the soldiers in front of them, allowing him to create a solid line without worrying about fouling their line of sight.

Riflemen, unfortunately, required a direct line of sight for their guns, since the musket balls traveled faster and didn't drop as much as arrows. If they tried firing over the heads of the elves and dwarves he was forming in front of them there was no telling where the lead balls would land, or if they'd even be effective.

Thankfully there weren't that many functional rifles remaining among the dwarves. "Up on the platform?" he suggested.

Falstan appraised the situation for a moment, then nodded. "Aye, laddie. Long as our musket fire don't distract the man's work."

Lord Nex looked as if he'd turned to stone, kneeling with one palm hovering a fraction of an inch from the surface of the obelisk. "If he complains you'll just have to move." Somehow Marbrand didn't think he would, though.

Dor'ane was already getting the Corona's Blaze archers in position around the base of the obelisk, starting out covering all directions from which the Scourge could attack, but also positioned to shift quickly if the Scourge press was from a single direction.

That left, among the dwarves and the elves suited for melee combat, maybe thirty men to form his line. It would be thin, that was for sure. If the Scourge pressed from one direction it wouldn't be a problem, but if they attacked from all angles the archers and riflemen would be vulnerable.

So be it. How much time could a hundred lives buy against thousands of undead? He turned to Hal. "Mine the route to northwest and northeast along the edges of the barrier." The goblin nodded gleefully and ran off, half a dozen dwarves laden with their own weight in explosives trundling after him. "Blackfinger, set our line to the south. We'll shift it as needed once we see how the enemy arranges itself."

That left only the mages. "Ladies. Will positioning yourselves on the platform put you too far from the action?"

Saire was slumped against one of the posts marking the beginning of the stairs, and as usual the blond elf, Tyene, was draped across her in a highly unseemly fashion. Who the hell knew where the Castaway had gotten to; he always seemed to disappear before a battle, only to appear where it shouldn't be physically possible for him to be.

"We'll be fine here," the copper-haired mage answered. "Although no promises how much we'll be able to bring to this battle. I assume you want us to bolster the line wherever it's thinnest and the enemy press is most determined?"

Marbrand nodded. "If you would."

A weary nod. "We're going to spend the time before the fighting begins evocating. Don't disturb us."

He was familiar enough with mages to know this was fairly common practice with a battle eminent and their mana pool low. "I'll be sure the others know."

As he pushed through the lines of archers to form up his infantry he distracted himself with another dilemma. With the riflemen and mortar teams back there were twenty or so dwarves wielding their hammers and axes, and luckily most also wielded small steel-capped roundshields. The elves were mostly Spell Breakers in their heavy armor with massive tower shields and warglaives, although a few wielded light weapons and armor of a make he didn't recognize, although it was decidedly elvish.

In most cases he'd put the heaviest soldiers, the Spell Breakers, in the center, the most crucial spot, and arrange the others out according to armor type. But with so few soldiers going against an enemy that massively outnumbered them flanking was a dire risk, and if the sides crumbled the center would be an island in the storm. So he divided the Spell breakers and set them at either end of the line, with the lightly armored elves beside them and the dwarves making up the center.

Perhaps what that sturdy folk lacked in armor they'd make up for in stoutness. He could only hope, or the center would fail and the archers would be helpless.

Just as he finished setting the line, lamenting its thinness and how much space lay between either end and where the barrier began, space only thinly warded by mines, he heard a shout from Blackfinger. Looking up at his friend's pointing finger, he saw a dark speck in the distance approaching. A gargoyle, pebbled stony skin glinting dully in the sunlight and heavy wings flapping hard. It swiftly approached and circled once. A few elves loosed arrows at it, including Hardal himself, but the creature was high enough to evade them. It gave a mocking screech and shot like an arrow northeast, to where the fighting undead and naga made a smudge on the landscape.

"That's it, then!" Blackfinger roared. "We'll have company soon!"

Yes, too soon. Marbrand unslung his shield and began testing the ties on his armor, more from habit than out of any desire to be prepared.

It would be over soon.

. . . . .

With a dull pulse the last of the Scourge-tainted runes winked out, reverting to their previous form, and Nex sagged back, panting and finally letting his weary arm sink to his side. In spite of the weariness, and the knowledge of how much still remained to be done, he allowed himself to smile.

With Menethil's work unraveled, he could finally begin his own attunements.

One benefit of that task, and one he was unduly grateful for, was that in working to undo an established pattern of runes he could see how nerubians managed the process. It would speed his efforts. Now, the only question was who to begin with. Elves would be the obvious choice, to allow Stormrage and Sunstrider access to the Glacier as quickly as possible.

Unfortunately the attunement had one unexpected component: familiarity with the racial traits of those he wished to attune. And not just easy things either, but a deep and thorough understanding of the creature at a level far, far smaller than the sharpest eye could discern.

That was a very, very big problem when it came to the naga, since he obviously didn't have one of those handy to inspect. He immediately held his hand out in front of him and set his second sight to searching deep within his own body, plumbing secrets he'd never bothered to explore with his second sight earlier. Even as he did so he spoke, loud enough to be heard with the nearest person over twenty feet away. "Fetch me an elf."

The dwarf rifleman turned, frowning. "What was tha', laddie? An elf? Which one did ye want?"

"It doesn't matter, just bring me an elf."

The dwarf shrugged. "If it'll help ye go faster, right ye are. Just thought ye should know, since Marbrand said ye couldn't see far, gargoyle's're circling overhead. Part o' the Scourge force pushing tae the northeast're swinging back around, skellingtons 'n ghouls mainly."

"You'd best hurry with that elf, then." Nex turned back to the obelisk, frowning. He'd best start with human, since it was the only information he had handy and there was no telling how long he'd have.

Naga he might or might not figure out, but whatever else he managed he didn't intend to miss watching Stormrage shatter the Frozen Throne.

. . . . .

Saire was jolted out of her trance, eyes opening wide then narrowing in annoyance, as a dwarf caught her sleeve and began tugging. "What?" she hissed. At her side, one hand resting on her thigh, Tyene didn't stir from her own evocation.

The dwarf tugged on his hood sheepishly. "Beggin' yer pardon, miss. The human, Nex, 'e wants an elf."

_What, _now_ he changes his mind? Couldn't have picked a worse time either._ With a sigh she stood, checking her mana pool. Being interrupted hadn't done her any favors, but she had enough to be useful, at least. If only she'd thought to prepare a mana gem last night.

Lokiv remained where he was at the obelisk, muscles so tense his body was perfectly rigid. The only change from when she'd last looked was that it was his left hand hovering just above the runed stone rather than his right. "You picked a bad time to get randy, human."

He didn't stir. "A closer inspection of your attributes is required for the attunement process."

Oh, like she hadn't heard _that_ before. "You need me to disrobe?"

"Right now I need nothing from you. Remain close by, it'll be another ten minutes."

Close by. Sighing, she sank to a crouch and looked up at the gargoyles that were now circling high overhead, harsh, taunting cries drifting down to her ears. None had tried to attack yet, and likely they wouldn't until the archers were distracted; whatever indigenous Northrend species the Lich King had twisted gargoyles from, the things were still alive. And they weren't stupid.

She turned her eyes to the cluster of skeletons and ghouls approaching from the northeast. Marbrand had already shifted his line to prepare to meet them, and it looked pathetically small compared to the swarm of undead approaching.

Hmm. Decisions, decisions. Start picking off the gargoyles, assuming she could manage any greater accuracy with her spells than the archers, or save her spells to blast the approaching undead. In the end it probably didn't matter, since any use she put her spells to would prove beneficial. She made her decision based on how fun it would be to watch dozens of zombies burn, as opposed to the hassle of trying to swat gargoyles like flies. Now she just had to worry about Hiezal, that sneaky ass. If he was skulking around in the middle of the Scourge ranks she might burn him to a crisp without realizing. She was surprised to realize that the thought horrified her.

What a pain. The only way to ease her fears was to find him and keep an eye on him so she didn't accidentally kill him. It would be pointless to make it out of here alive if he didn't.

Her wandering gaze snagged on the ramp they'd come up from inside the crevasse. Movement there, Hiezal maybe?

She didn't see anything now, but unease suddenly filled her. There was Marbrand, shifting everyone to meet the Scourge threat from the northeast, effectively putting their backs to a tunnel that had been carved by nerubians. Creatures which she'd seen with her own eyes were helping the Scourge.

There was no need for concern, though, was there? If enemies were approaching from underground Lokiv would sense them with his second sight, like he had those landmines.

Unless, of course, he was currently putting all his concentration towards something else.

She ran to the edge of the platform. "Marbrand!" she screamed. The knight turned to look at her, and she pointed. "Nobody's watching the ramp!"

Marbrand cursed, whatever he said unheard at this distance, and began pushing around the ranks of archers for a closer look at the threat.

He hadn't gone more than a dozen feet, jogging across a clear area to the south of their lines, when one of the northwest landmines detonated, shaking the ground under her feet.

Nothing had set it off.

Another detonated, and then Marbrand shouted in alarm, and she turned in time to see the burned knight disappear down a hole that appeared suddenly under his feet.

Creatures were skittering up the ramp in a black wave, something between beetles and spiders. There was something disjointed about the way they moved, made all the more horrifying by their sheer size, and Saire was seized by emotions halfway between revulsion and stark terror.

Screaming, she stretched out her hand and began to cast.

. . . . .

Marbrand slammed against the side of the hole, pinned to the ice by a shockingly powerful forelimb. Beneath him his booted foot was sunk halfway into a spider-like maw, and the creature was hissing as it tried to bite through the thick steel of his greaves. He kicked at a cluster of compound eyes with his free leg, and the thing hissed and let him yank his leg free. It also let him go, and with a shout he found himself falling atop the monstrosity.

He did his best to lead with his shield, slamming the sturdy wood into two thick mandibles that were snapping around to close on his head. He caught one and shoved it away, and the other must've been connected because it stopped inches from his face, dripping some sort of venom.

Light renewing, had he slammed his head on something and fallen unconscious into a nightmare?

Still hissing, the creature shifted, snapping its head around, and Marbrand was flung away to slam into the wall again. He landed on a sloping surface, a tunnel leading back into blackness, with the insectine creature that had set this ambush looming over him. Light was pouring in dimly from overhead, filtering around his assailant and making its black carapace glisten.

Bellowing, Marbrand raised his shield overhead, just in time to catch the descending forelimb with its wickedly barbed point. The weight of the blow slammed him into the ground, nearly breaking his arm and flattening his shield against his chest and face, but as the blow rebounding he managed to shove the limb away. In a surge he rolled up against another leg, firmly planted in the ice, and as the creature reared, lifting it away, he came to his knees and yanked his sword free.

The maw descending once more toward his unprotected head speared itself on his ugly broadsword, and he shoved off, pushing the point in deeper. The insect made a gurgling liquid sound and snapped its head around, and Marbrand found himself slamming into the icy wall of the tunnel again. Stars flashed across his vision, momentarily blinding him to the horrifying sight; he didn't know how he was still conscious.

In a frantic scramble he managed to slide himself under the creature to its segmented hind end. The insect, still hissing in pain and rage, was too big to turn around. It tried to skitter backwards, but Marbrand planted his feet against its hind legs and locked them. It didn't stop the thing, of course, but as it went back so did he. With another bellow he began hammering at the thing's softer underbody with his sword, lifting his shield as viscous ichor began spraying down.

The thing bellowed again and jerked, so powerfully that he was flung sliding down the tunnel. He hit a snag and began rolling, and when he stopped he saw the thing pulling itself out of the hole it had made. Probably so it could turn around and come at him head-on again.

Like hell he was going to let it.

Shoving to his feet, he scrambled up the slippery slope, chopping his sword into the ice for purchase whenever he started to slide back. He reached the bottom of the ambushing hole in time to see the insect hiss and skitter away, arrows peppering its head. The ice and snow that had crumbled away when the thing pulled him down had formed a sort of pile at one end, and he scrambled up it as best he could and pulled himself out of the hole.

Chaos reigned around him. To the northwest he could see a firestorm where the ramp leading up out of the crevassed had been. A few more of the insect creatures were skittering through the flames, blind and directionless, while others unable to escape the flames had fallen still, curling up with their legs beneath them like dead spiders.

The flames hadn't been quite quick enough, though. Half a dozen of the things were tearing through the ranks of archers, while his line of melee troops was trying to push through to help. Meanwhile the swarm of skeletons and ghouls had struck from the back, a few dozen going over the mines and annihilating themselves in an attempt to flank.

In short the line and the archers were tangled together, trying to meet threats from both sides. To make it even better the gargoyles had decided to attack. Many were remaining fairly high up, loosing arcing blasts of green energy that rippled through the ranks and sent his soldiers screaming in pain and dazed confusion. Some were swooping down and raking at people as they passed, but others had elected to try to pick up their victims, usually elves, and with wings flapping heavily fly them up high enough for the drop to be fatal. The few archers who were free and had the presence of mind were trying to shoot these down before the succeeded, but the only truly free ranged soldiers were the riflemen on the platform, and their focus was all on keeping a swarm of flanking geists from Lord Nex's unprotected back.

Marbrand assessed the situation in mere moments, then he was spinning, searching for the creature that had attacked him. He found it a dozen feet away, frothing in rage. Rather than attacking, it was doing something odd with its forelimbs. It took Marbrand a moment to realize it was reaching into some cavity in its chest and scooping out little swarming insects, which it sent skittering at the nearest elves. One Spell Breaker was already on the ground, thrashing and screaming as the vicious bugs burrowed through joints in his armor to the soft flesh beneath.

The sight terrified him, but at the same time Marbrand felt more confident now that he was out of the hole and free to move. He slipped around to come at the thing from the side, hopefully out of its vision, and then charged, sword raised. He reached the creature's back right leg and hacked down at the top joint, and to his relief the solid blow tore right through, cutting the limb away clean. More ichor sprayed his face and chest, but he ignored the disgusting stink and feel and bulled forward, throwing his weight against the thing's body.

By luck or chance or instinct it was the right choice. The giant insect, surprised and in pain at the loss of its leg, jerked sideways off-balance, and when he slammed into it he knocked it off its feet and onto its back. Dodging through the desperately kicking legs he ran up its shelled body until he reached that cavity it was pulling those horrible bugs out of. He dropped, sword leading, and slammed the point right into that cavity with all his weight behind it. For a moment he felt resistance, and then the ugly blade was sinking deeper and deeper, until his chest was resting on the insect's carapace.

The thing convulsed horribly with a hissing shriek, and he allowed the movement to fling him aside. Only one of those ravenous bugs had crawled on him, and he managed to smash it with the back of his gauntlet. Then, moving warily, he approached the dying thing. Bugs were skittering away from it in all directions, no longer seeming hostile. Almost as if its will had directed them in their voracious attack.

Who knew, maybe it had. A few of those bugs skittered right past him without paying him any mind. Just to be safe he stomped on all the ones that came near him, finding it surprisingly satisfying to feel them cruching under his booted foot.

He managed to retrieve his sword, and spent a moment staring into the cavity he'd stabbed into. It was hollowed out, but if this bug was anything like smaller ones this had to be where all its most important organs should've been. Undead? If this was one of those nerubians Nex had spoken of, then it did indeed seem the Lich King had raised them to his service.

Which begged the question of how he'd managed to kill an undead bug by stabbing into it. Perhaps unlike other undead, this thing had a source of its animation, which his blow had managed to destroy. It would be best to tell the others of the weakness.

Turning his back on the thing, he staggered toward the chaos that was the battlefield.

. . . . .

Snarling, Saire loosed a searing blast of flames right into the face of the gargoyle that had swooped down at her, either to pick her up or to claw at her as it flew past. Shrieking, the thing veered away to slam into the obelisk, mane aflame and limbs kicking desperately. Its falling body nearly struck Lokiv before it caught itself and flapped heavily into the air once more.

Saire sank to one knee, staring at the human. This battle wouldn't be nearly the disaster it was if he was part of it. How close was he to being finished? Could they afford to wait until he was? It was a temptation to say to hell with his attunement and call him to the battle.

Before she could decide one way or another Lokiv stirred, then without turning his head reached an arm back behind him and beckoned to her. She tottered over. "Finished?"

"Hardly." He leaned out and caught her clothing, dragging her closer, and his hand encircled her wrist. "This shouldn't take long. Feel free to continue keeping both of us alive."

"What are you doing?"

"Exploring the building blocks that make up the smallest parts of your being."

Damn, now didn't _that_ make her jealous. He was learning things she hadn't even contemplated, and here she was throwing fireballs at gargoyles.

Speaking of which . . .

. . . . .

"That hole in their chest where they're pulling out all the bugs!" Marbrand shouted through the din. "If a sword thrust can do it, an arrow can too!"

Dor'ane nodded dubiously and turned away, shouting orders. Marbrand staggered forward toward the tangled mess of a line holding off the skeletons and ghouls from the northeast. Nerubians were popping out of the ground everywhere he looked, but that mass of undead was the greater threat should the line fail.

He arrived at Falstan's side in time to catch the dwarf as he staggered back. He fell into a crouch, slamming his shield out to knock a skeleton back, and lowered the dwarf to the ground.

Falstan waved him away irritably. "'m all right, laddie. Just need a moment."

Marbrand drew his sword in a ringing arc that chopped away a ghoul's clawed hand. It didn't slow the thing in the slightest, so he got his shield between them and surged to his feet, shoving the undead back. "Where's Blackfinger?" he demanded, standing protectively over Falstan as the dwarf struggled to regain his feet.

"Somewhere in there."

Marbrand glanced at the press of undead surging inward rather than overwhelming their line and saw Blackfinger's tall, armored form at its center, holding their attention.

Seemed like a good place to be. Catching a charging skeleton with his sword and sending it flying away, then slicing the head clean off a ghoul on the backswing, Marbrand set his shield and waded into the fray to join his friend.

. . . . .

Saire's flamestrike on the ramp had faded, and now the nerubians were pouring up from it once again. She didn't have time to direct another spell that way, much as it would've helped; the crush of undead from one side and nerubians from the other was pushing everyone back to the platform, a jumbled clump of elves and dwarves fighting desperately to stay alive. Using muskets or bows would've been madness in that press, so they'd been flung aside in favor of melee weapons. Most of the archers bore only a short sword or mace, a few handaxes, and the weapons were proving insufficient.

Saire had another problem. A nerubian unlike the others had pushed clear of the ramp. Smaller, but iridescent blue rather than the black of its companions, its forelimbs twitched in weird, vile magics, like a puppeteer performing a show. And like puppets, the slain were rising to its will, turning on their former allies. The thing was moving towards the platform, protected by its escort of reanimated corpses.

A quick glance at Tyene showed the platinum blonde was occupied with sniping gargoyles out of the air, and a good thing too because their attacks on Lokiv had become almost frantic. As for Lokiv himself, he'd sunk to a slouched sitting position, head resting against the obelisk.

Damnit. This was what they were here for, wasn't it? Keep him alive long enough to attune them. The only way any of them were coming out of this was if Lord Illidan managed to get to the Frozen Throne and destroy it, destroying the Scourge in the process.

She turned to the nerubian necromancer, fingers dancing as she chanted the matrix for a pyroblast spell. Halfway through casting the blue insect's twitching arms paused for a moment, and suddenly Saire's tongue felt like it was on fire. She gagged, spat, and gasped in horror when she saw her spit was a vile greenish hue. She gagged again, chewing on her tongue to stop the agony, but before she could do any more she felt a familiar power washing over her, and the vile spell that had silenced her was dispelled.

Lokiv strode by her, raising a hand. The animated dead who'd gained the platform flew away, burning and twitching. The nerubian necromancer paused on the bottom step, and power pulsed from it to wash over the human. Lokiv shrugged the attack aside almost contemptuously, and a moment later the nerubian went stiff, limbs twitching spastically, then fell perfectly still.

Ignoring the fighting all around them Lokiv continued forward to stand directly before the nerubian. "You don't have the power to reattune this obelisk," he said. "Who comes?"

The necromancer hissed. It took Saire a moment to realize it was laughing. "You'll not hold me long like this, human," it said, voice deep and sepulchral. "All is futile. If the fiends of the crypt do not sweep you away then comes the crypt's lord. Anub'arak was the champion of Zish'athal in life, and in death he wields powers you cannot imagine."

"By the time he arrives you'll all be dead. Does your lord have the power to challenge an army?"

More hissing laughter. "Fool. You will not so much as pierce his carapace. The Master will mount the steps to the Frozen Throne before an hour has passed."

Lokiv shrugged and reached out. "Weapon," he snapped.

Saire gave a start, realizing she was the only one paying attention. After a moment of fumbling she pulled her belt knife free and handed it to him hilt first. The nerubian began hissing, limbs twitching as it strained against whatever hold Lokiv had over it. It came free with a snarl, forelimbs sweeping out, just in time for the human to leap over them and slam the tiny blade into the center the necromancer's head, just above its eyes. The knife shattered, tip lodged into the creature's carapace, and hovering for a moment Lokiv reached out and pressed a finger to the shard of metal. In a flash it glowed white-hot, and the nerubian fell back, convulsed with its legs flailing, and then fell still.

The human landed lightly and turned to face her. "You owe me a knife," she said. It sounded somewhat feeble after what she'd just witnessed.

Lokiv raised a hand, and from the center of the knot of undead the ground exploded into fiery debris. After casting the spell he sagged. "The attunement is finished."

Saire wasn't sure what to say to that. "Oh, that's good."

"We need to finish up here and leave. Save your mana, Saire, you're making a portal."

She blinked. "A portal? To where?"

"To wherever. Stormwind, Dalaran, any juncture of the ley lines in Eastern Kingdoms you can manage. It's time to leave."

"But what about this Crypt Lord that's coming? Lord Illidan will fail if he manages to undo what you've done."

Loki smiled bitterly. "Perhaps he will. Either way, I suggest we be gone before Anub'arak arrives. The attunement proved more costly than I'd expected. I don't have the power to fight him." The human cocked his head. "Do you?"

Saire looked around. "Can we even destroy the enemy that's attacking us now?"

"If we had time. I'd start preparing that portal."

As if to reinforce his words, the ground suddenly shuddered beneath them. Saire snapped her head around in time to see the ramp leading into the crevasse collapsing. Cracks were appearing in the ice farther down the crack, and even as she watched the ice there shattered into chunks which flew every which way. Jutting from the cracks like a dagger from the underworld was a single spined limb, similar to the forelimbs of the nerubians but twice as large.

At her side, Lokiv cursed.


	26. It Means Nothing

Hey guys.

First off let me apologize again for the incredibly sporadic nature of my posting recently. Not to sound whiny, but I figured that after posting solidly for two weeks straight I deserved to do whatever the hell I wanted :). Seriously though, it's almost done and I hope you'll forgive my irresponsibility. In my defense in the past few weeks I actually purchased Magic the Gathering cards for the first time since I was just a wee lad and I got **Lord of the Pit** in a booster and I was like "awww yeah."

But anyway I got a lot of cards. A whole bunch. So I was busy making kickass decks. I also finally got around to purchasing my favorite game in the whole world, Star Wars Epic Duels, which is actually much, much cooler than it sounds. Watching Day[9] dailies and playthroughs has also eaten up quite a bit of my time.

And now for a bit of background on this chapter.

I don't know how many of you played the final level in the undead Frozen Throne campaign, "A Symphony of Frost and Flames" (which I assume is an homage to George R.R. Martin's "A Song of Ice and Fire", or if it isn't it should be). Obviously the entire Northrend book is tied to the Frozen Throne campaign, same as the other Demon Hunter books are. And, since this is the final battle of the campaign, it's also the final battle of the books.

So back to the mission itself. For those of you who didn't play "A Symphony of Frost and Flames" it was, pardon my french, fucking impossible. At least for me. The best I could manage to do was three obelisks while battering my army to pieces on the fourth, while damned elves and naga tore my base apart behind me. If I were to stay true to that mission it makes the entire thing significantly less challenging looking at it from the viewpoint of the elves and naga, and less in keeping with the notion of the Scourge as an unstoppable tide of undead vastly outnumbering their foes. So the undead are much more dangerous in my story.

On to Anub'arak. A strategy I often employed in attempting to beat the mission was to load Anub'arak with all my armor and strength artifacts and send him off to battle the elves by himself while I did my best to secure a base, the first obelisk, and get established. And surprisingly enough as long as his ult was going Anub'arak was pretty much unkillable, so I'd leave him alone for minutes at a time doing other things, and come back every now and again to watch him massacring elves by the score with more than half health.

It didn't work, of course, but it was awfully fun to watch him go nuts. And of all the Warcraft 3 heroes he was the most memorable for being able to take on an entire army by himself. So as a nod to that silly strategy, as well as out of respect for his badassedness, that's what he's going to be doing here.

NT

Chapter Twenty-Five

It Means Nothing

"Are we dead, then?" Blackfinger whispered.

Marbrand stared at the flames raging just inches from his face, with shards of flash-boiling ice turning the air into a fog of scalding steam so intense that all around him desiccated, frozen corpses were twitching as their flesh was melted and boiled away. "Light eternal, I hope not. This can't be a good afterlife."

His friend slowly waved his hand through the flames, which flowed harmlessly over his gauntlets. "You didn't turn into a paladin while I wasn't looking, did you?"

Marbrand took a half-step forward, wading through boiling slush, then hissed and jerked backwards as heat buffeted his face. "Some sort of area shield protecting us both," he said.

Blackfinger planted his axe and dropped his chin down to rest on top of it. "Lord Nex?"

"Plants a shield around us then drops a firestorm on our heads?" Marbrand shook his head, doubting it. They'd been in the heart of the seething undead, with Scourge packing tight all around to get to them. So tightly that they couldn't even swing their weapons, and only their armor and the thick press kept ghouls from tearing them limb from limb.

A perfect place to drop a massive spell for maximum devastation. Nex might've known they were there and still done it, the calculating bastard.

The fire outside the barrier was beginning to die, the cold swirling in to quench the flames and send the heat fountaining upwards in a column that knocked a gargoyle off course and, by coincidence, saved it from a fireball that would've struck it square. Through the flames a single undead figure limped, missing one arm and with its face half torn off. Rather than cold blue shining in its deep sockets, instead it was a sickly yellow.

Blackfinger cursed in disbelief. "Havel. I thought you were dead."

"Nope."

Marbrand sagged as healing Light flowed around him, easing the hurt of the wounds the undead had managed to inflict. "Where've you been?"

Havel grinned and closed with them. "Well let's see. Scourge looking to rip apart anyone not under the Lich King's sway on one hand, and you in the middle of an encampment of people wanting to do the same to any undead they come across. I've been laying low, obviously."

As the undead reached them the shield surrounding him merged with that protecting Marbrand and Blackfinger. Marbrand noted it well. "It was you that saved us, then?"

"I thought it was the least I could do." Havel cackled. "Just kidding. Nex's geas compelled me to make every effort to keep you alive."

"Keep us alive from his own attack?"

The undead waved his remaining hand. "Don't be silly. You wouldn't have survived long in this press anyway." He casually swung his waving arm around, and a ribbon of black energy lanced out to catch an approaching nerubian in the head. The creature shrieked and began clawing at its eyes, and a moment later those eyes dribbled out of their sockets, along with a substantial portion of whatever had been in its head.

Marbrand jerked around, staring at the battlefield. The ghouls and skeletons were mostly obliterated, save for those that had been closest to his embattled soldiers around the platform. Those were being dealt with, although victory was by no means assured.

At the periphery of the battle the nerubians were fleeing.

Blackfinger tore his helmet off and tossed it aside, using his Sons of Lothar tabard to mop at the blood and sweat on his face. The blue and silver cloth soaked up the blood in a way that some might have considered symbolic. The big man didn't seem to notice as he set to tearing strips off the tabard to bind a nasty wound along his scalp. "Huh, the bugs're running. This your doing, undead?"

Havel frowned, a ghastly sight with only half a face. "No. I can sense a psychic link between them, although too alien for me to ever hope of penetrating. Something is directing them, and whatever it is has called them away."

Marbrand spat, and saw the snow speckle with red where his spittle landed. Had he bit his tongue again? It'd been years since he'd made that mistake in the heat of battle. "Why?"

Before the undead could answer the ground lurched beneath them, hard enough that Marbrand staggered and fell to one knee. He looked over in time to see a spined forelimb stab upward out of the ice, so massive it made the legs of other nerubians seem feeble by comparison. Even as he watched the ice around the limb cracked and shattered, then exploded outward as a creature that looked like nothing so much as a giant beetle surged up onto the plain, skittering on even thicker and more massive hind limbs.

Its carapace was a deep, dark blue, with lighter patterns swirling through it, and from a comparatively tiny head a massive horn jutted outward. The carapace on its back was easily half a foot thick, and from beneath the segmented halves the tips of iridescent wings jutted.

Ceremonial, or was it possible such a massive, heavy creature was actually able to fly?

Pouring from the hole around and beneath this creature came hundreds more insects, like smaller versions of it although each was still easily a foot high and possessed wicked mandibles and clawed limbs. As the monstrosity shook snow and ice from its shell the smaller beetles flowed forward in a wave to surround and bury the few remaining defenders on the platform.

Marbrand broke into a lurching run toward them, Blackfinger at his side and Havel limping along after them, drawing further and further behind. "To me!" he bellowed, slamming his sword against his shield. "Shieldwall to me!"

Shieldwall. By the gods, he'd forgotten the army he led. This was no troop of heavy infantry who could stand against this skittering invasion. The Sons of Lothar were dead, and all that remained to him were a few beleaguered elvish archers and dwarvish brawlers. And yet at his call they turned, and somehow they managed to form up around him in time to ward off the first assault of those terrifying little bugs.

But not easily. Even though they were a fraction of the size of their monstrous leader, still their carapace warded the blows of all but the heaviest weapons as well as Stromguarde-forged steel. Seeing it, feeling the shock of impact shiver up his arm as he struck again and again with his battered broadsword, Marbrand thought of the thick carapace of the bug that was even now advancing to join the battle and despaired.

If these thinner shells turned his blow, the carapace of the giant beetle would be all but impenetrable.

He was the center of the line, him and Blackfinger. More than that he was their core, and if he broke now they all would, and nothing would ever turn them back to the battle. But there was no guarantee that if he stood strong they wouldn't break anyway. He could hear the low moans, the cursing, how even as frantically as these soldiers fought their blows lagged every time they turned their attention to the monstrosity coming toward them.

Each step that bug took shook the ground, although it was still nearly fifty feet away. Its weight must be unimaginable, such that a blow from its limbs would shatter the sturdiest shield and send even the strongest warrior flying. He didn't want to think of the fate of anything crushed beneath that bulk.

As it approached the little bugs swarming around it and pressing at the pathetic line of elves and dwarves grew increasingly vicious in their attack. Marbrand found his heavy boots and his shield as useful for striking at the things as his sword, and in some cases more so.

Where were the casters?

Less than thirty feet away from them he saw the monstrous beetle raise its forelimbs and slam them down into the ground, shaking it with the force of the impact, and as he watched the ice crack and ripple in a line ahead of it he had a feeling that making the ground quake wasn't going to be the only result of the odd action.

Before he could see one way or another the giant beetle's attack was interrupted. Appearing seemingly from out of nowhere, so much so that even though Marbrand had been looking straight at the giant enemy he still hadn't noticed his approach, the Castaway darted in and slammed his longsword into the beetle's tiny black left eye. The thing gave a deafening bellow that had Marbrand wincing even at this distance. He could feel as much as hear it, and by all rights the Castaway should've been knocked to the ground senseless. But somehow the lithe elf kept to his feet, and as the giant beetle reared he darted to its left, where its vision was impaired, and sprinted forward just out of range of its giant forelimbs. With another bellow the creature turned in pursuit.

Exposing its back to their line.

They might never have a better chance than this. Marbrand kicked aside a beetle and broke into a run forward, stumbling over more of the things as he closed. "Full attack!" he shouted. "Hit it while it's distracted!"

The charge from his shattered line of elves and dwarves wasn't quite the heroic rush he'd envisioned. Several tripped or were driven to the ground, while others became bogged down and were forced to once again defend themselves against the voracious beetles. Marbrand's own progress forward was slow and labored, and every glance back showed him scarabs in pursuit to flow over him should he falter.

He crossed the distance in a haze of desperation, and with with the tips of iridescent wings glistening beneath the heavy carapace at head height filling his vision he drew back his sword for a two-handed thrust. His target was the crack in the shell where those wing tips protruded, a possible weakness in Anub'arak's chitinous armor.

The blow shivered up his arms and knocked him back a step, but it took only a moment to see that while his aim was true the force of the thrust hadn't been sufficient to wedge his sword tip into the crack. He felt one of the small beetles scrabbling at his greaves, trying to climb his leg, and with a snarl he kicked it away as he thrust again. Again he was foiled by the tight seal, and in frustration he raised his broadsword overhead and swung it down against the shell with all his might. The blade clanged out of his hands, and for a moment he couldn't form fists his hands were so numb from the blow. In the snow his sword was bent slightly and notched near the tip, and he looked at it in dazed disbelief.

This enemy, what madness had created such a monster? He'd fought demons easier to kill than this nerubian freak, this lord of crypts.

The monstrous beetle abruptly roared and began to turn, massive legs skittering for all their size, shaking the ground beneath him. Whatever distraction the Castaway had provided was evidently done with; for all he knew the insanely brave fool was already dead. As the beetle spun it lifted the nearest of its heavy forelimbs in preparation for a blow, one that would sweep along the line of his soldiers that had been attacking its back. The cruelly spined limb struck the first of his soldiers with a crunch he felt as much as heard.

Marbrand watched in horror, feeling as if time were slowing down even as it sped up so quickly there was no time to think, to react, only to witness in helpless grief. The scything forelimb plowed through the knot of elves and dwarves that had been hacking at it desperately, and where it passed bodies flew, broken and bleeding, barely even slowing the speed of the massive claw.

At the last second he dropped down, a broken dwarf body slamming into him and knocking him sprawling. He could feel the wind of the thing's passage, the sheer weight of it seeming to make the air gelid. His hair was tugged wildly, snow and shards of ice stung his skin, and then it was past and the pitiful few who remained alive were picking themselves up or huddling on the ground, moaning. The ground for dozens of feet in every direction was littered with still, broken bodies. The little beetles swarmed everywhere, already beginning to feed to the accompaniment of horrible screams from those still alive but unable to defend themselves. A few went after Marbrand as he lay, and with a shudder of revulsion he heaved to his feet and began kicking and stomping.

One attack. A single blow, and his forces were decimated. He had fought ogres and gronn, witnessed battles between heroes and dragons, and in all that time had rarely seen such swift and terrible carnage. Even in the battlefield legends, when High General Turalyon learned of Lord Lothar's death and wielded the Light in terrible retribution as no man had before or since, the sheer awesomeness of it was only a story, a tale he'd heard but not witnessed. This was real, and had he not seen it he wouldn't have believed it.

The battle lost before it had even begun, and the damned beetle they fought hadn't even taken an injury, save perhaps the single blow to its eye the Castaway had delivered before the fighting started.

The thing continued its slow spin until it faced him, and since Marbrand was one of the few still standing he drew the nerubian's full attention. It regarded him with alien intelligence and malice, and then to his surprise spoke in inflectionless Common. "Do you claim to lead this pathetic force?" it asked, the words resonating from deep within that carapace, giving its voice a sepulchral quality.

Marbrand reached at his waist, then remembered that he'd dropped his sword. It lay at the base of one of the beetle's front legs. Instead he hefted his shield, ready to die. "-"

The brave words he'd been prepared to speak were drowned out in a roar of sound as shadows gathered out of the brilliant sun and snowglare and began swirling around the creature's head. The nerubian bellowed and flailed uselessly, backing one skittering step, then another, as the shadowy assault continued. Marbrand turned to see Nex approaching, one hand outstretched and a strained expression on his weary features. The man passed him without a word, without even a glance. Then he heard calling, and turned to see the Castaway standing with a knot of dwarvish riflemen, Doran Havel, and the two elvish women, beckoning urgently.

Casting about, he saw one of the figures nearby moving and hurried to him. It was Hardal, feebly swatting at scarabs as he tried to lever himself upright with his broken bow, cursing in pain every time he put weight on a leg whose foot was turned around almost 180 degrees in the wrong direction. Marbrand got a shoulder beneath the aging Ranger and lifted him, surprised at how little the elf weighed.

"Back into the fray?" the elf asked, pale lips drawn tightly over gritted teeth.

The beetle bellowed again somewhere behind them, almost knocking him off-balance and sending them both to the ground again, and Marbrand glanced over his shoulder to see that the nerubian's roar had scattered the shadows assailing it and was now skittering forward to meet Nex, both forelimbs upraised for a crushing blow.

Just before they began to descend the young lord dropped to one knee and slammed one palm into the snow. A shockwave of fire roared out from his hand, lifting chunks of burning snow to hammer into the beetle, and it gave a low, resonating hiss and began backing away again, its single-horned head turning this way and that.

Marbrand turned away and started forward, doing his best to keep Hardal moving as they made for the platform. With every step he took he could almost envision the beetle charging after him, sending them both flying away broken with one casual sweep of its spiny limb. His shoulders were half-hunched with every step, expecting that attack, even though he knew the monstrous beetle had a bigger threat than him to deal with.

Once again, Lord Nex came to battle the fel reaver and win the love of his men.

. . . . .

Nex twisted to one side, barely able to dodge away from the projectile even though he'd seen it coming before it emerged.

_It shoots spikes. Fucking brilliant. An indestructible undead scarab lord that weighs as much as a dragon and doesn't need to hit you with one of its limbs to kill you. Although that would certainly do the job._

Behind him Nova was gathering the survivors while Saire and her fellow mage scraped out a circle and began attuning themselves to the nearest ley line in preparation for opening the portal. They were close enough that if Nex failed Anub'arak would reach them almost immediately.

The crypt lord recovered from Nex's spell almost immediately and set its feet to charge. Nex didn't have to search for long with his second sight to see that neither of his spells had had the slightest affect. So not only impervious to physical blows, but highly resistant to magic as well. Excellent. And he didn't even have a torpedo anymore, let alone a weapon that might actually injure the thing. Aside from a sword at his waist that would kill him if he drew it.

The ground shivered as Anub'arak approached, beetles swarming around it. There were less than there had been, dozens killed by his previous spells. He toyed with the idea of unleashing another spell to destroy those that remained, then decided it would probably be wise to save his mana for an attack that might actually harm his enemy.

Assuming he could find one.

At the last moment he dodged aside, smoothly avoiding the two descending forelimbs. The force of their impact with the ground would've knocked him from his feet, but he was already ducking into a roll, kicking halfway through to dodge a kicking leg and coming up alongside the nerubian. It started to drop down, as if to crush him with its massive bulk, but realizing he wasn't beneath it instead it began to spin, forelimbs blurring with their speed as they swung at him.

Faster than a creature this size had a right to be. Instead of dodging Nex leapt, catching a segmented joint in the creature's front leg and vaulting up onto its back. Its carapace had a layer of spikes along the top, wickedly barbed, and he had to tread carefully among them. Anub'arak lurched beneath him, preparing to move suddenly, and he fell to his knees and gritted his teeth as one of the spikes impaled his calf.

No time to attempt the demon metamorphosis, assuming he even could after doing it only yesterday. He wasn't even close to full strength. Instead he gripped the sword, cursing at the pain of it rushing through him. Anub'arak lurched down then up beneath him, trying to buck him off, and he grimly held onto the spikes with his free hand.

_Ever seen anything like this?_

_'I've seen all creation and all that live within it. You all seem as bugs to me, scurrying through your useless proliferation.'_

_That's nice. I'd like some power._

Energy surged into him, and with NexTaeja's direction and the guidance of his second sight he jammed his hand against the carapace at the base of the spike he held and released it. The shell cracked and smoked as the Light blasted it, and then the crypt lord was bellowing and bucking again, and it was all Nex could do to hold on.

He abruptly tilted forward, almost landing face-first in the spikes, as the nerubian raised its hind legs and drove its forelegs into the ground. He could feel the crypt lord's powerful limbs thrashing as it began to burrow, and leapt away before he could be dragged underground with it. He hit hard and rolled, grimacing as he felt blood pumping out of the hole the spike had torn through his calf.

Anub'arak was moving beneath the ground with surprising ease, showing that he was bred for tunneling as well as being indestructible. And somehow the crypt lord seemed to sense where Nex was on the surface, positioning itself beneath him.

Nex staggered to his feet, extending his second sight. He saw more spikes shooting from the nerubian, with such force that they tunneled through the ice and shot into the air all around him. He was able to dodge them without too much effort, and the fact filled him with a sort of grim amusement.

Likely against most opponents these sorts of underground attacks were devastating, if not impossible to counter. Since Nex could locate the nerubian quite easily with his second sight and detect all approaching attacks, it effectively took all the threat out of these attacks.

Another wave of spikes tore through the ice all around him, and Nex slapped one aside and dodged the rest. Problem and opportunity. Anub'arak was impotent while beneath the ice, but at the same time Nex couldn't exactly get at him either. Which would be frustrating if he actually had any intention of fighting this creature, but since he was just trying to buy time for Saire the longer the thing stayed underground launching easily detectible attacks at him the better.

"How long on the portal!" he shouted over to the platform.

"The nerubian magics of the obelisk are blocking arcane links to the ley line!" Nova called back, sounding like he had no idea what the hell the words he were saying meant.

"How long?" Nex asked again.

"Damned if I know?"

Nex cursed and dodged another wave of spikes. Come to think of it, maybe he should let some of those hit him and cause minor injuries, enough to make Anub'arak think the strategy was working and keep at it for as long as possible.

Unfortunately he made that decision too late, since his most recent dodge apparently frustrated the crypt lord enough to make it give up the strategy. His second sight detected the thing burrowing up towards him, and he started to run to the side to avoid its emergence.

Too slow. Rather than tunneling the whole way at the speed Nex was accustomed to seeing Anub'arak exploded upward through the ice, sending him flying into the air with chunks of ice spraying all around him. Some were twice his size and easily ten times his weight, and he barely managed to avoid being clipped by one as he flew. He activated his levitation, intending to propel himself far from the nerubian waiting below, but before he could even start Anub'arak reared up on its hind legs and swatted. Nex threw up a desperate shield between himself and the approaching forelimb, as well as exploding the levitation spell to send him flying away from the attack, but the two attempts only blunted the force of it, not saved him from it completely.

His second sight went blank for a moment, every bone in his body shuddering as if they'd all been broken simultaneously, and he slammed into the ground at full force like a bee swatted out of the air.

Sometime between having all the air blasted out of his lungs and trying to take his first gasping breath afterwards, he blacked out.

. . . . .

"Gods of Azeroth!" the Castaway shouted. Behind him Havel's hands began glowing yellow with frantic spellcasting.

Marbrand ignored them both, sprinting for the figure tumbling and skidding across the hard-packed snow as limply as a rag doll. The force of the blow the nerubian had struck Lord Nex with had to have been sufficient to kill him instantly, but what could he do but hold to hope?

Even watching it happen, it was hard to believe that the almost awesomely powerful warlock could be struck down so easily. Even knowing the horrifying foe they faced. Hadn't he destroyed a fel reaver from the inside, and that was a creature as daunting and dangerous as this nerubian lord.

To his shock by the time he reached Nex's side the young lord was already stirring. "Help me up," he said with gritted teeth, holding up an arm with jagged bone jutting out just above the elbow. Marbrand recoiled, unable to believe the man was conscious, or even if he was that he wasn't screaming in agony. He reached past the arm and gripped Nex by the elbow, lifting him, and was shocked by how heavy he was. It was obvious Marbrand was bearing all his weight.

A bellow jerked Marbrand's gaze to the giant beetle. In its upward surge it had destabilized the ground all around it, and now its hind end had fallen into halfway back into the hole it had emerged from. Its impressive tunneling skills obviously didn't extend to such precarious positions, with its powerful forelimbs too high above the ground and awkwardly angled to properly dig. And a good thing it was stuck, or they'd probably both be dead.

Nex shook free of him, and without the slightest hesitation gripped his broken arm beneath the jutting bone and, in one vicious movement, shoved the bone back into place. He immediately went limp, and Marbrand was barely quick enough to catch him as he fell. Yet again he regained consciousness with shocking speed and shook free of Marbrand's support.

"Spells?" Marbrand asked grimly.

The young lord laughed. "Had I any to cast powerful enough to injure it, I already would've done so."

"Perhaps use fire to further destabilize the ice beneath it and keep it trapped?"

Nex ignored the suggestion, intent on the creature struggling to free itself from the ice. His face was haggard and bleak, and it was obvious his mind was racing for anything, anything to do. Marbrand reached out and caught the young man's shoulder. "Come away then, Nex. Perhaps Saire will have the portal made in time." The words were foolish, but what else was there to say? Nex was obviously finished, at the end of his strength and horribly wounded besides.

He received no answer for several tense moments, and then Nex gave a low sigh. Resignation and anticipation joined themselves with utter weariness. "Sir Marbrand," he said quietly, intent on the massive scarab lord tearing free from the ice. "I hold the contract complete. Join Saire and the people that remain to you and go your way."

Marbrand watched as the massive beetle inched ever closer to freedom. "I don't understand. The battle isn't done. The Frozen Throne remains unchallenged."

"It doesn't matter," the young lord whispered. "The Prophet was right, damn him. As well to wing away as to face this fight. Not when the victory brings further darkness. It all means nothing."

The words made no sense. He still didn't understand what Nex was trying to say, and he felt his anger rising. How many of his men had perished on this campaign, out of the fifty he'd led from Outland? How many of is people had he failed, did he now grieve for? To face the betrayal of the woman he'd come to love, to kneel at her side and watch all hope crumble to dust. All so this bastard could stand at the foot of Icecrown Glacier and tell him _it meant nothing_?

"Go," Nex said, stepping forward. His hand dropped down to the diamond hilt of the magnificent sword at his side, and every muscle tensed as if in agony. "Save what can be saved, knight. And know I'm sorry. I'll face this battle alone, as I should have from the beginning."

And with that Nex drew the sword. Fully, ringing from the sheath with a harsh rasp, as if the blade had not been drawn in millennia, arcing out into a guard position. The keen edge glowed with white fire, painful to the eyes, cleansing in a way that burned the way the Light should not.

Nex screamed, not a battle cry but in torment, and his body folded in on itself as if being crushed from all sides. Yet somehow he managed to step forward, into the path of the crypt lord, to block Anub'arak's approach to where the pitiful handful of remaining survivors waited at the platform.

Marbrand turned. "Mistress Saire," he called. "You heard him. Take everyone to safety. Blackfinger, go well old friend." He turned his back on them, and as Nex took another agonized step forward Marbrand moved to stand beside him.

Nex glanced over. "This isn't your fight," he rasped through gritted teeth, the words almost incomprehensible. "You shouldn't be here."

"The hell it isn't and the hell I shouldn't. Don't you dare tell me what means something and what means nothing, you arrogant bastard."

Anub'arak finished tearing free of the newly formed crevasse, and with a hiss plunged his clawed forelimbs into the ground. Marbrand saw the snow bulging forward in a line and leapt away, just in time to avoid being impaled by a row of spikes. Nex made no effort to dodge, and instead his holy sword flashed, slicing away the spikes before they could reach him in such quick succession that the blade seemed to blur, creating a wall of light in front of him.

Marbrand pushed back to his feet. He knew the insanity of his choice, to interfere in a fight between a horror of the old world, locked away under Northrend for millennia, and this terrifying lord with his twisted sword of Light. But he accepted his role in this.

There was no path for a warrior but to die in battle. There was no settling down to a life hoeing beets while his peasant wife pushes out children in the one-room hovel behind him. In a world where war raged endlessly there was no peace to be found, even for those who earned it.

He should have died holding the Horde back from the Dark Portal, while the Archwizard Khadgar stood on his ridge above the battle and called vast magics down to destroy the corrupt gateway. He should have died a hero. He should have spared his loyal, honorable men the indignity of suffering for a crime they didn't commit, a decade of degradation and exile on a broken world. He should have spat in Nex's face when he came with his poisoned offer to return to Azeroth. He should have seen the dark malice in Olivia's eyes as she murdered his men and betrayed them all, leaving a trail of corpses and hopeless deserters in their wake.

But he'd done none of those things. He reaped a lifetime of honor, and his only consolation was the hope that in the world beyond the sacrifices he and his men had made would be recognized. Soon he'd learn if that was the truth.

Appearing almost hesitant in the face of Nex's holy sword Anub'arak lifted the segmented halves of its shell, and from beneath emerged not wings but a swarm of carrion insects, locusts forming a cloud around the monstrous nerubian. Nex continued his tortured, implacable march forward, and Anub'arak skittered forward to meet him. Too slow.

With a bellow Marbrand lifted his sword, set his shield, and charged forward, past the young lord and into that cloud of ravenous bugs. At the last moment he raised the shield to protect his head, feeling swarming insects descending on his armor, on his face, biting and tearing. Their weight was enough that it felt as if he'd donned a lead mantle, and in spite of himself his steps faltered.

Was this the end he'd chosen for himself? Not fighting to the death and heroically slaying foes left and right as more took their place, but staggering about blind like an old man as locusts devoured his flesh, until he finally staggered and fell and moved no more?

He didn't have long to contemplate this before his shield exploded, shards peppering his face, and he suddenly felt light, lighter than he'd ever imagined.

Then his weight returned, and he felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach.

. . . . .

Another to fall victim to those devastating limbs. Anub'arak was no novice to war, with speed and power earned as well as inherited.

Nex watched Marbrand fly through the air, swatted away with contemptuous ease, and wondered if he'd looked so frail. He didn't feel frail, in fact didn't feel anything much aside from pain, as if all he'd ever suffered in his life was coming back to haunt him all at once, the Light scouring deep to find all his imperfections and burn them away. It was a process that would end in his death, he knew, for there was nothing to be found within him but imperfections.

He was the god of pain. The deity of suffering. And like all gods, on a whim he would stretch forth his hand to pluck a mortal from oblivion.

Marbrand's plunge to the ground slowed as Nex's levitation caught him, and he'd been thrown close to the platform. "Take him!" Nex called to Blackfinger, hearing the torment in his voice and wanting to laugh. "For all he's suffered, he does not deserve to die here."

_And I am the one to decide, for I smile upon those who know the torment I have lived._

Nex was aware his thoughts weren't exactly lucid. NexTaeja no longer spoke in his mind. Instead his voice was a song, a sweet noise of destruction and perfect recreation. He could feel that song seeping through his body, soothing away all his wounds and filling him with more strength than his frail figure could handle.

He should have died the moment he drew the sword. Before it even left the sheath, even. But here he was, turning to face Anub'arak, who had paused within its swarm of carrion locusts and waited for Nex to come to it. He could almost taste its uncertainty. The Lich King had swayed this king of old Azjol-Nerub to his service with promises of incredible power and immortality in undeath, but this was the first time Anub'arak had tasted fear in a long, long time.

_Drink deep of it, nerubian. Fear is the herald of suffering._

He took a slow, tortured step forward.

"What are you?" Anub'arak rumbled, forelimbs raising uncertainly in preparation to attack.

"I am the Destroying Light." The voice was not his own, and the words did not come from him. "Without destruction there can be no perfect creation." Then Nex laughed, a high, wild sound, and suddenly his steps weren't so tortured.

Anub'arak reared up, the classic posture of beetles trying to scare away an enemy. Nex darted forward and those limbs swung down, devastating and powerful. He leapt above the left one's impact and landed atop it, and his sword flashed down, shearing into the carapace. NexTaeja's edge was far sharper than any metal should be, for it was ground down so thin that the first blow should have blunted it, were in not reinforced by the Light itself. When the blade finally halted, caught within the thick carapace, Nex yanked it free and it came away as smoothly as if buttered. This blade would not catch, would not stick.

As the nerubian swung its right limb to swat him away Nex dropped, seeming to float but drawn to the ground faster than gravity could account for. He slammed into the ice, and for an instant Anub'arak's skittering limbs faltered, thrown off-balance. He lifted the sword in a guard position overhead and caught both descending forelimbs on the blade. The force of the blow should have shattered every bone in his body and crushed him into the ground, and indeed his boots sank almost two inches into solid ice, but instead the force of the blow drove NexTaeja's keen edge far deeper through the chitinous armor than he could have managed with any swing. The crypt lord made a strange keening noise, and as it yanked its limbs away, the blade once again smoothly coming free, icy viscous ichor rained down on Nex's head.

He stepped forward, raising the blade to swing.

And suddenly Anub'arak was turning, its hind end raising as its injured forelimbs punched down into the ice, and with shocking swiftness the crypt lord was tunneling down. In moments it was gone, leaving only a gore-streaked hole behind it. Nex stepped forward to the edge of the hole, ready to pursue. There was some reason he shouldn't he, thought, but it was a distant thing.

Yes, easy enough. He would annihilate Anub'arak, break the nerubian down to its constituent parts, and then into nothingness itself. Then he would stalk the endless winding halls of Azjol-Nerub and destroy every inch of that vile place. And every step he took would break the world beneath him, tearing it down to be rebuilt. He would find his way to the Frozen Throne itself, and fill the vast gulf of the Lich King's power with himself.

The Destroying Light. Free at last to carry out its divine purpose. Not a purpose set upon it by a divine being, but a purpose of such correctness that it was god, and all other things were but counterfeits.

Nex's second sight extended up to the sun, able to discern it for the first time since he'd lost his eyes. Not its light, but its actual shape and form. Even its color, a thing that had been nothing more than a concept to him with his second sight.

And he was on the ground, his back arched so stiffly that only his heels and the back of his head touched the ground. The Destroying Light wasn't about to carry him captive to its ultimate purpose at all:

He was about to be its first true victim. He was about to be pure nothingness, about to become his name in truth.

_Release me, _he commanded of the sword, and the sword commanded it of him.

_Fool. You fool. You fool. You fool._

All his life, swirling thoughts as his body was destroyed from the inside, a maelstrom plucking away his consciousness and leaving nothing behind. His pain, his suffering, all his childhood and adult fears and sorrows, greedily devoured.

_You cannot do it. An imperfect thing cannot be the instrument of perfect creation. _His accusation battered the sword, and the sword's accusation battered him.

_Flawed. Never should have existed in the first place. Born of misery, hated by the one that brought you into being. A mistake._ Their thoughts were one, each condemning the other and themselves.

_You abandoned your purpose. Your only reason for existing. You betray your purpose and you might as well be nothing. You are nothing. You are Nex. The Light that brings nothingness. The shadow cast by the light._

How long had it been since he'd introduced himself and told someone what his name meant? How long had it been since he'd taken twisted pride in his own self-loathing? How long had it been since he'd wished for the oblivion of death? Freedom had been his purpose, and it was so close.

_Destruction is your purpose. You'll never be free, because you cannot achieve your purpose and it will torment you forever. You will fail every endeavor, betray every hope. I should cast you into the forge I drew you from. You are nothing more than the condemnation of my own hidden imperfections. You are nothing._

The sun receded from his second sight, and Nex shook his head grimly, the motion solely his own. _Those are your thoughts, sword, not mine._ And with a final cry he willed his hand to open, to release the fused diamond hilt of the cursed sword.

His hand had fused to the hilt, and as he peeled it away his flesh remained, exposing his fingers down to the bone. For a moment his second sight inspected that porous whiteness, and then blood flowed over it, staining it red.

Shuddering, Nex shoved his hand into the snow and turned away from the weapon, feeling the death within him. There had been no cleansing in the fiery paths NexTaeja had sliced through his being. He'd been scoured bare, just like the bones of his finger, and he wasn't sure that either would heal.

_My name is Nex. It means nothing in demonic._

_It means nothing._

_It's only a name._


	27. Freedom

Chapter Twenty-Six

Freedom

An odd, dull boom filled Hiezal's ears as his boot came down on soft carpet. He staggered, even though the step through the portal had been perfectly smooth and even, with no change in elevation, simply from the unexpectedness of going from slick ice to the luxurious appointments surrounding him.

A moment later he staggered again as almost three hundred pounds of knight rolled through the portal and into the backs of his legs. He cursed, dancing awkwardly to the side, and fell to his knees to check that Marbrand hadn't injured himself coming through the portal, vaguely aware that more people were pushing through.

When he looked up again he saw that across the room, which was lined on either end by dozens more smaller portals, a young human woman of perhaps eighteen years was staring at him openmouthed. By her robes she looked to be some sort of apprentice mage, and while she didn't have that breathtaking elvish beauty there was a certain innocence to her that he found appealing.

He smiled and waggled his eyebrows. "Well hey there."

The woman opened her mouth and screamed, then raised her hands in front of her. Arcane energy danced around her fingertips, and with a soft pop of imploding air she vanished.

With a shrug Hiezal glanced back toward the portal, then flinched when he found Tyene staring at him in revulsion. "What?"

"Half our friends just died, and that was the half that actually managed to survive to the end of this campaign, and you're trying to get in some human girl's pants? What the hell is wrong with you?"

Hiezal straightened, affronted. "She wasn't wearing pants!"

The blond mage was shoved aside as Blackfinger bulled through the portal, carrying Dor'ane. A few more elves and dwarves streamed through, then finally Saire staggered through and fell to her knees. Behind her the portal didn't vanish, only wavered and became a grayish color; a permanent gateway, meaning they must be in a magetower.

He was at his lover's side in an instant, supporting her. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, the devoted lover," Tyene said sarcastically behind them. "A blazing inferno of warmth and devotion, except when he's trying to screw everything with legs."

For once Hiezal ignored the opportunity for a brilliant comeback, helping Saire to her feet. By the time they managed it more robed humans were pouring through the other portals, including the young woman he'd seen, who was closely followed by a bald gnome whose soft black robes made him look like a doll. The moment Hiezal saw him he was struck with the urge to see how far he could kick the little bastard.

Surprisingly it was the gnome who stepped forward to address the score or so of survivors. "What's the meaning of this? This portal is sanctioned solely for the use of students of the arcane. Who authorized its use for a gang of thugs?"

Everyone's eyes went to Marbrand. Hiezal was amused to note it, considering that the burned knight was so broken and grieving that the burden of leadership had to be crippling, but everyone still looked to him. But Marbrand didn't so much as lift his gaze from the floor, although Blackfinger had lifted him to his feet and was supporting him.

Finally Hiezal realized that nobody else was going to say anything. Really? With a sigh he looped Saire's arm around Tyene's shoulders and stepped forward. "Our apologies for the crude intrusion, good mage. If there's a fee for the use of this portal we'll be glad to pay it." He was distantly aware of the somewhat heavy sacks of gold Lokiv had piled on him last night, securing his assurance that it would be distributed to those the human owed money to. Somewhat of a mistake on Lokiv's part, picking him, but who else was pragmatic enough to lug around twenty or so pounds of gold during a battle?

The gnome's eyes narrowed. "Well, at least you speak fairly. You do realize Grand Marshal Garithos has ordered all blood elves to be arrested on sight?"

Hiezal shrugged, then winced when his shoulder twinged. Damn, he'd nearly dislocated it just stabbing at that insectoid monstrosity Lokiv was back on Northrend hacking apart at this very moment. "I wasn't aware the magetower of . . ." he glanced around, picking up the preponderance of golden lions and blue cloth, "of Stormwind was directly answerable to Lordaeron's High General." _Really, Saire? Stormwind? Why couldn't you have found us a nice glade in Kalimdor to dump us all out in?_

But noooo, it had to be more humans. Damn, damn humans. And a gnome.

The gnome frowned for a moment. "Technically we're contracted out to the Alliance army," he said slowly. "But word from Lordaeron has been . . . sketchy of late. Where the hell did you come from?"

Hiezal grinned. "Northrend. Just beneath the Frozen Throne to be exact. We just finished an assault meant to secure the final and lasting defeat of the Scourge." This led to some murmuring among the assembled mages.

"Oh." The gnome looked around the small group. "Did you win?"

"You'll have to wait and see if the undead start dropping where they stand. But I have to be honest, I wouldn't hold my breath."

"I see. Well I hope you're not expecting a hero's welcome from Stormwind."

"Why not?" Hiezal pulled his trophy from beneath his cloak and tossed it at the gnome's feet. Vaguely spherical and the size of both fists put together, it was too frozen to be very desiccated. The young woman who appeared to be the gnome's apprentice bent down and picked it up, looking it over curiously. Hiezal had to admire her lack of squeamishness.

"I'm asking a lot of questions here, when I should be either welcoming you as guests or bidding you be on your way." The gnome took the thing from his apprentice and inspected it. "But one last question begs. What exactly is this?"

"It's the eye of an undead nerubian, one of the Lich King's chief lieutenants."

"It appears to be arachnid," the gnome admitted. "You killed the thing?"

"Sure did." Hiezal didn't look at any of the others, although he sincerely hoped none of them gave away his lie. What harm could it do, when verifying his claims required a trip to Northrend? "I bet King Varian would be willing to reward such heroic deeds." He glanced back. "Oh, and I believe my companion here has a contract enabling him to withdraw a few thousand gold Anduins from the Stormwind City Bank."

"Oh." The gnome finally waddled forward and stuck his hand almost straight upward. "Well pleased to meet you then. I'm Perival Manaspark."

Hiezal grinned and shook the little creature's hand amiably. It would take barely any effort to pick Manaspark up and toss him across the room discus-style. "Well met, Perival. Don't mind my companions, we've lost almost three hundred friends and comrades in this campaign, including a few lovers. No reason why they wouldn't be miserable. I don't suppose you know of any good taverns around here."

Hiezal relished the somewhat stunned silence that followed, as everyone no doubt pondered on what an unbelievable ass he was.

. . . . .

There was no trance this time. The state he fell into whenever his body or mind refused to continue functioning, the state which regenerated him no matter how desperate his condition was. There was no regeneration at all, only a constant feeling of wrongness that didn't abate. His demon skin enchantment, weak as it was, had been completely washed away by the Destroying Light, and for the moment he had no power to draw upon. Had he not been working to wean his body off dependence on magical animation he probably would have gone into cardiac arrest by now.

No undead challenged him, although his second sight wasn't functioning. For all he knew they could be all around him. He didn't have much choice but to use what little strength he had to stagger to his feet. Although the thought of touching NexTaeja again filled him with revulsion he used his cloak to pick it up and shove it back into its sheath. Then he straightened with a groan.

Even blind, he could still feel the sunlight striking him. It wasn't even the slightest bit warm so far north, and in truth now that he thought about it he was distantly aware of how painfully cold he was, where he wasn't numb. But he could feel the sunlight just enough to gauge its direction. Assuming it was afternoon the sun would be shining from the southwest, which meant he just had to put it behind his left shoulder and he'd be on his way north.

He took one step, then another. Then he fell down. After about ten seconds he pushed back to his feet and took a few more steps. He kept falling down, but luckily there was a thin layer of hard-packed snow on top of the slick ice so it was only agonizing instead of bone-breaking.

With every shuffling step he expected to run face first into the nerubian barrier, but after a hundred or so yards he came to the satisfying conclusion that Stormrage, Sunstrider, and Vashj must've been successful in attuning their obelisks at least for a time. The fact that they'd done it for humans came as a pleasant surprise.

Perhaps. Stormrage was no fool, and his sight stretched much farther than Nex's own. Perhaps their disastrous battle at the southern obelisk hadn't been for naught after all.

About that point his efforts to extend his second sight finally gained some success. He was able to perceive, back the way he'd come, over a dozen nerubians arrayed along the barrier, hissing and scratching at it as they watched him limp away. On the obelisk platform he saw the massive bulk of Anub'arak hunched by the nerubian runes, working deftly with one spiked claw while the other was clutched tight to its body, obviously seriously damaged.

Damnit, he was going to have to hurry. He managed to pick up his pace for three more steps before falling flat on his face again.

Barely able to get up, he set out toward the Glacier again. At its southern tip where he'd arrive there was a steep cliff, the spiral ramp nearly a hundred feet above the ground, but somehow he'd find his way up.

Assuming his master feared Kil'jaeden more than the Lich King or his puppet, there was only one place Nex could expect to find him.

Freedom at last. And perhaps victory after all.

. . . . .

He'd left his lieutenants back at the bottom of the ramp, electing to come on alone. Even his prized steed, Invincible, remained with the Scourge host. Leaving him to walk forward in solitude, one heavy step after another shaking the icy slope beneath him. In a few places the weight of his cursed armor cracked the ice, each snap like the shriek of a damned soul. In his hand Frostmourne pulsed, growing ever stronger as he approached the peak and the heart of its power.

It was well he came alone. To look upon his master, to become one with him, was a sacred thing. Let no puppets or slaves watch the blessed event.

A dozen paces, a hundred, the ramp ever twisting ahead of him. He'd misjudged the height of Icecrown Glacier, even from this close. From below he heard his minions raising their unearthly cries of victory, the last of the wretched elves and their serpentine allies routed and fleeing in all directions. Only one creature took wing in the skies above, and before long it disappeared behind the Glacier and didn't reappear.

Smiling, Arthas Menethil, King of Lordaeron, quickened his pace. Sure enough by the time he'd gone half another rotation up the ramp he saw a dark shape waiting in the middle of the narrowing pathway, blocking the way forward.

He slowed, lowering Frostmourne until its tip rested against the ice at his side. "I didn't expect you to show yourself, night elf. Your cowardly attack using the Eye of Sargeras weakened me, but my strength has returned tenfold. Your race to reach the Frozen Throne first has failed, and now you stand alone against me, and Frostmourne hungers. Now you face your choice of damnations: fight me and die, and spend an eternity of torment within the heart of Frostmourne, or wing away and hide until your masters in the Legion find you and make you suffer an eternity of their twisted torments."

He could see the jaw of the dark-skinned elf clenching at his words, and exulted. Forgotten Ones in the heart of the Old Kingdom had proved no challenge to his strength. Would this ancient hunter of demons with his demonic blades prove more interesting? "Or will you choose a third option and try to best me? We fought once before, you and I. I see you took the bait and sought out the Skull of Gul'dan as I advised you. When last we met we were evenly matched, and you yourself halted the duel in favor of parlay. With your newfound power do you think you'll best me now?" Arthas smiled. "Do you not wonder what powers I've gained since then?"

"Finished?" Stormrage said after a few moments of silence. Arthas made no reply, and so hefting his warglaives the demonic night elf charged. Laughing, Arthas lifted Frostmourne into a two-handed grip and did the same.

The last time they'd fought he'd noted a key weakness in the design of the Warglaives of Azzinoth. Curved weapons held in their center were good enough for swift attacks, but unlike a weapon held with two hands, the fulcrum for any force was in the wrist. If you struck the center of the warglaive that was no problem, but if you hit at one edge or another you'd twist it hard. No wrist could withstand that sort of force. Stormrage would either have to dodge or disengage.

Stormrage knew that weakness well, and in the previous fight he'd relied on superior speed and well-timed magical attacks to keep an even footing, always turning aside blows rather than directly parrying them. This time Arthas gave him no such option. Allowing his armor and positioning to blunt most of the night elf's blows, he focused solely on striking the warglaives at angles that would force a direct parry or a dodge that would unbalance his opponent. At first the fury of Stormrage's attack had him back on his heels, but before long his counterattacks had the night elf off-balance. Then his enemy took one step back, and Arthas knew he'd won.

With a hiss the night elf leapt backwards, wings snapping out to catch him as he hovered just out of reach. Transferring the warglaives to one hand he used the free one to prepare a spell, an arcing ribbon of darkness that snaked out towards Arthas. Arthas recognized it well from their previous fight, the insidious magical attack that sought out the mana within him and burned it, taking away his power and injuring him at the same time.

Before it had proved irksome, but this time his understanding of Frostmourne was greater. He released the mighty greatsword with his off-hand and used his index finger to trace one of the runes along the blade, murmuring long-forgotten words of power. The rune came alight, and from it poured a stream of eerily lit green runic symbols which swirled around him, forming a barrier. Stormrage's spell struck that barrier and writhed, twisting and searching for a weakness. Then the spell fizzled.

With a snarl of rage the night elf curled his wings inward and plummeted, warglaives leading in an attack with all his weight behind it. Smiling inwardly, Arthas used every bit of speed he possessed to sidestep, and as his startled enemy slammed into the ground beside him he shifted his two-handed grip on Frostmourne and cut downward with all his strength behind it. Its tip caught the night elf on the shoulder, digging deep, and cut a furrow down his chest, exiting near one hip.

The force of the blow slammed Stormrage a foot or so into solid-packed ice, which was turning into a frozen sludge around his chest from the blood spurting from the terrible wound. Arthas stepped away, feeling Frostmourne's exultation. It had struck a mortal blow, and in doing so had fed deeply on Stormrage's power. His enemy snarled, still somehow managing to lift his warglaives defensively in front of him, and Arthas easily knocked them out of Stormrage's hands with two swift, hard chops of Frostmourne. Then he moved forward, raising the sword point-downward in preparation to take Stormrage's soul.

At that moment the world pulsed around him and he felt his strength fail. Gasping, he fell to one knee beside his dying enemy, Frostmourne burning in his grip.

_Hurry,_ the Lich King's voice urged. _Time is almost gone._

With a snarl Arthas rose and staggered away, breaking into a run towards the peak of the glacier and his destiny.

Assuming Stormrage survived long enough, he'd be back for him.

. . . . .

With blood pulsing from his wound with every faltering heartbeat, Stormrage lay still and pale.

Nex limped forward, making no effort at stealth, and a moment later the thick black cloth of the other demon hunter's blindfold blazed to green fire as his master awakened.

Stormrage twitched awkwardly, obviously trying to push himself up, but his wounds were too severe. Realizing that, he stretched a clawed hand weakly towards Nex. "Help," he rasped, then doubled over coughing blood.

Nex took another step forward. "What was that, Master?" he asked politely.

With a snarl Stormrage stretched out his hand again, and his claws tightened into a fist. Nex screamed as pain tore through his head, and a moment later he was on his knees. "_Help_," Stormrage snarled.

Nex staggered back to his feet, pushing through the pain. "Oh, right, that sword wound. Looks pretty bad, I'd advise finding a healer." Stormrage snarled, and Nex gave a strangled yelp and fell to the ground, twisting and turning in torment. "All right!" he panted. "All right, false gods damnit!"

The pain finally relented, somewhat, and with greater effort this time he stood and reached into his cloak. "As you command, Master." From within he drew a small vial, made of pure opaque white crystal and with enough power infused within it to imprison a demon lord. Provided that demon lord was the size of his little finger or smaller.

The pain in his head abruptly stopped completely as Stormrage caught sight of it. Nex grinned and wiggled the bottle between two fingers. "I'm sure you of all people will know about the Tears of Eternity. Blessed water taken from the Well of Eternity itself. This is one of the many ancient artifacts plundered from the Stormrage Barrow Dens which I stole from Shadowsong." He tossed it up and caught it. "I've heard legends which say that the Tears of Eternity can resurrect even the dead."

Stormrage's fist clenched again, this time without any pain on Nex's part. "Give," he rasped.

Nex smiled and wiggled the vial again. "I think we have a small item of business to conclude before I give this to you." Even pale and drawn from loss of blood, Stormrage's face still turned ugly with anger. He started to clench his fist again, and Nex calmly stepped forward and stomped on it. Hard. He could hear and feel bones breaking beneath his boot, and Stormrage hissed in an agonized breath. "Really, Master. Do you think you have time to waste trying to compel me through pain? You'll be dead within minutes."

Stormrage glared up at him. "Link between . . . I . . . die . . . bring you with . . ."

Nex shrugged. "I don't care. So if you want to live I suggest you hear me out." Stormrage said nothing, and Nex smiled again. "The campaign is over. The elves and naga are being pushed back by waves of undead, and if by some miracle they make the coast they'll not be coming back. Of the army you sent with me I'm the last man standing in Northrend. And as you can obviously attest, you lost your little duel with Menethil. Now all that's left is the issue of your oath to me. When the campaign in Northrend reaches its end, win or lose, you free me. That's what you swore. Once you do this vial is yours."

"Won't . . . live . . . through . . . not strong-"

"You won't live if you don't," Nex cut in. "Whether or not you bring me with you, either we both live or we both die. I suggest you give it a try. Remove the link, as you promised, and return to me what you took to create the hole the link filled."

His only response was a wave of pain washing over him, tearing into him so deeply that he was afraid Stormrage had decided to bring them both down in death after all. For an eternal instant he was certain he was dying, and then abruptly the pain vanished. With it went the link to the Illidari stone, which suddenly began burning at his breast with a pain of its own. Nex fumbled it out of his shirt and flung it aside with a shudder, then abruptly all strength went out of him and he fell to the ground, gasping for air that refused to enter his lungs.

The hole. Whatever Stormrage had ripped out of him to create room for the link was still gone. "Stormrage," he gasped at the dying figure, "the link hole." His former master's face was blank, the green fire burning through his blindfold flickering, but a moment later Nex felt agony once more, and then . . . nothing.

And then everything.

He was whole. As he hadn't been for nearly a year.

With a sharp laugh he leapt to his feet, feeling the shadows pouring into him normally once more. He'd guessed his link to Stormrage had capped his potential at the point it had been when the link formed, so long ago in Elwynn Forest, but now he was certain of it. And he'd grown since then; the shadows came in a torrent that made the Illidari stone seem like a trickle in comparison, and even what he'd been able to draw in Outland was but a pale shadow of this. Laughter bubbled from him, torn away by the sharp wind whipping around Icecrown.

Still in the snow, Stormrage grasped weakly at him with broken fingers. "Vial," he croaked.

"Right," Nex said with a last laugh, dropping to his knees beside his former master and twisting the lid off the small bottle. He tilted Stormrage's head back and carefully poured the entire contents into his mouth. Stormrage began coughing halfway through, but stubbornly suppressed it until the bottle was empty. Then he clamped his lips shut and fought to swallow in spite of his coughing and choking, refusing to waste a single drop. "Refreshing, isn't it?" Nex said with a smile as he stood and backed away.

Stormrage fell back, breathing raggedly. After a few moments the flicker of green behind his blindfold intensified. "Nothing . . . happening," he mouthed, too weak to speak.

Nex shrugged. "Well, I imagine you're less thirsty now. I wouldn't hope for anything more, since that was just glacier water. Drawn not twenty feet from this spot, in fact."

His former master writhed on the ground, lips pulled back in a snarl. "Lied."

"I never specifically said the vial was Tears of Eternity, did I? You should know enough about making deals with demons to pay attention to little details like that." Nex laughed again, mockingly this time. "I don't know if such a thing exists, but it does sound nice, doesn't it? You could really use something like that."

Stormrage glared at him with pure hatred. Then with a growl he stretched out his clawed hand a final time, blue fire streaking from it. Nex raised his own hand to counter the attack, and though he managed to do so the force of the spell threw him back almost five feet, sliding through the snow and ice and digging a furrow the entire way. "Menethil's sword drank too much of your power, Stormrage," he hissed, trying to hold onto his confidence. He didn't know if he could hold off a few more attacks like that one. "What remains is bleeding out on the ground right now. I'd quit worrying about me and start worrying about that three-inch-deep gash across your chest."

With that Nex decided he'd tempted fate long enough. With a last laugh he turned and sprinted for the edge, clearing the final foot in a flying leap over the thousand foot drop to the plains below. On the ground far beneath him undead looked up and raised a cry, ghouls snarling, nerubians hissing and clacking chitinous arms together. A single gargoyle winged up toward him, but Nex had just enough power to swat it down, crushing one of its wings.

He didn't know whether Stormrage would manage to save himself. Probably not, all things considered, but either way he didn't care. He was free, and that was all that mattered.


	28. Epilogue: New Life

Hey guys.

Well the story comes to a final close, a bittersweet feeling for a writer, but a satisfying one as well.

Thank you to all who've followed the story from beginning to end, I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. If I could make a last, selfish request, I'd love to hear from any of you who want to give a final critique now that it's done. What you liked, what you wanted to see more of, parts that seemed awkward or need refining. And most of all what parts of the story struck you most powerfully.

I'd originally intended to put this epilogue second, but the one I put up first seems like a better way to end the story, so this one will go first.

Farewell,

NT

Epilogue

New Life

The Pig and Whistle tavern in Oldtown was the haunt of veterans and city guards. As such, it boasted patrons even during the early hours of the morning. Men who started their drinking in defiance to the tenets of decency, men who were still drinking from the night before, and men who slept by day and were drinking themselves to bed.

At one table near the corner sat a burned man in a soiled, stained tunic and breeches meant to go beneath heavy plate armor. A mug of ale rested on the table in front of him, but he barely seemed to notice it. The serving girl, who went to every patron regularly to see if she could serve them anything else, shunned the burned man as if he carried the plague.

The mood in the tavern was always dour, its patrons businesslike in their pursuit of ale-soaked oblivion, but even so it was more quiet than usual. When the silence was broken by the door to the inn being thrown open the others turned to the distraction with near relief.

A big man stepped into the room, so tall that he had to duck through the door. He, too, wore the quilted undertunic that went beneath heavy plate, and his, too, was heavily stained and soiled. So it was with little surprise that the patrons watched the big man stomp over to join the burned man.

The burned man didn't look up as the giant newcomer sagged into the seat across from him. The entire bench groaned at his weight, and a few of the sodden drinkers murmured in various stages of alarm. The big man waited a few moments for some greeting, then grunted and motioned to the serving girl. Not until he'd downed a full pint in several deep gulps and waved for another did he finally speak.

"Found him." No response. "Squirmy little sneak gave up as soon as I let on I knew, although he talked a convincing game up to that point. I didn't even need to voice an accusation before he was good-naturedly pressing a few sacks of gold into my hands. Completely unapologetic, the little bastard."

The burned man nodded once. The ale in front of him was topped off to the brim, all the foam collapsed and not so much as a sud to be seen. It had sat there like that for almost three hours now, untouched since he'd ordered it. At first the patrons around him had looked at it longingly, then in distaste at the thought of drinking such a warm, flat brew. Now they were glancing furtively at him, uneasy at the sight of a troubled man come to drink but not so much as taking a sip, only staring at his mug hour after hour.

"A call's come from Perival at the Magetower. The Kirin Tor have announced that with the Scourge cleared from Dalaran's streets the rebuilding will commence. They call for all laborers skilled and unskilled to come and earn an honest wage with the surety of peace and protection."

The big man took a long, slow sip, digesting that news, before he finally grunted. "I signed up as a soldier to avoid backbreaking work, and that was when I was a boy. We're too old to get into that business now."

"Better for me if I'd stayed on as a farmhand," the burned man said quietly. "Rella, the farmer's daughter. She let me into her bed once. We talked of marriage before the war broke out and I went in search of excitement." His eyes studied the turgid liquid before him with hopeless intensity. "She was a little slip of a thing, tiny as a child but with a woman's shape. Hair like liquid ink, eyes even darker and deeper that filled up half her face. Gods, what did I leave?"

"You think it might be a bit too late to go back to a life we abandoned thirty years ago? You can set your shoulder to the plow again, but it won't put your girl back in her bed giggling as you slip through the door."

The burned man's jaw clenched. "I've no taste for women anyway." He backhanded his mug with sudden violence, sending ale spraying across the table. "Nor for drink. Light blinding, he should've let me die!"

The big man had half-risen to escape the torrent of ale, in doing so dislodging two of the other men on the bench. A third was cursing bitterly as he dabbed a tunic now soaked in stale brew. But at seeing his friend's shoulders sag, the brief flame of his rage dying as swift as it was kindled, he sat again. "Ah, Dare. If it's a retirement of hauling stone you want I'll be by your side same as always. I daresay I've still the strength for it."

The burned man was staring down at his hands, flat and perfectly still on the tabletop. "You've Castaway's gold."

A dour laugh from his friend. "Aye. All we'll ever see, although more than we would've gotten for our cut, eh? A pity the bank's got two more guards at the door now, with that pasty shit Burnside peeking through the door. I'll wager he doesn't see much with his eye swollen half shut, and he should thank the Light I'm a civilized man or I would've got him with a closed fist and smashed his face in."

The scarred hands on the table clenched. "Don't speak to me of his lies, or the men his broken oaths would've shorted had they not died to his cause. He refused me death, so all that remains is life. Too late to go back, you say? I say it couldn't happen soon enough. Let me live out the rest of my days building rather than tearing down, and I'll be content."

The big man's frustration finally showed through. "But why this path, Dare? You could buy a farm still, or work at one locally if you so desire. Or you could still have more. You're a knight of the Order of Lothar. King Varian has welcomed you with open arms and a kiss on your cheek. You could have a position of command."

"Varian." The scarred man gave a hollow laugh. "He welcomes me with open arms, while his banker refuses to honor a contract won in blood. He kisses me, while the men who rebuilt his city rise in open rebellion after he refused to pay them the very reasonable wages they worked for. The very men who worked long hours without compensation on the Cathedral of Light now swear to drag this king from his throne."

The big man looked around warily. "Careful, friend."

The scarred man shoved to his feet. "I go to Dalaran, Blackfinger. I do not ask you to join me, nor expect you to. I could never have asked for a finer friend or brother in arms."

. . . . .

In the necropolis of Kaznar there were few dungeons. The dead had chains of a different sort, and the Lich known as Darkstone had little interest in holding the living. They were of more use dead.

Yet the dungeons were not empty at this time. The battle of Icecrown Glacier had resulted in many foes captured, foes powerful enough that they had more use than to simply be slaughtered and have their bodies raised as puppets. And the process of tearing the life from an elf, and his freedoms as well, while preventing his soul from escaping was not a short one, nor easy. The numbers in the dungeons dwindled but slowly. The captured Lady Lana'thel had been the first, but not the last, to enter the ranks of the San'layn.

But in the deepest reaches of the floating necropolis's dungeons one prisoner huddled alone in his cell, cold and starving and sick and none of those things. His eyes burned a cold blue in the darkness, and like many traitors who suffer for their treachery he blamed his suffering on those he betrayed.

Even in a bastion of death such as this one living things dwelt. Tiny spiders, rodents with thick fur pelts and long fangs, beetles. He could hear them skittering in the cell, scratching behind the walls. Their blood wasn't enough for his thirst, though he'd perfected the technique of singling out their essence and closing the iron fist of his will about it from afar, dragging them to him in an eyeblink.

Days passed, perhaps, or weeks, though how he could live so long was a mystery to him. And eventually one of the scratching sounds he heard beyond the wall struck him as far too deliberate and regular to be the skitterings of a pest.

Frowning, he followed the sound, long ears perked as he dragged himself around his cell. Until finally he found again the tiny grate meant to carry away offal, the grate he hadn't yet used. The sounds drifted up from it, faint and persistent. "Who's there?" he hissed.

The scraping stopped. "Same to you," a cracked voice hissed back. Whoever that prisoner was, he must be in even worse shape than he.

"Ilinar Montfere."

A long pause. "Oh, you."

The casual dismissal in the other voice infuriated him. His was a blighted history, a shameful affair with a human his mother tried to hide, resulting in his birth, at which time she tried to hide him as well. Her death at the hands of the Scourge and his life after as an orphan and beggar, one among hundreds of refugees. Still, he was a Montfere, the Mountain of Fire that had once loomed over Corona's Blaze as the most powerful family, ancient before ever the Firedges or Darkstars had wormed their way into influence.

"Yes, me," he snapped back. "Now answer my question, or I'll seek your soul out and grip it to me, whether your body follows or not."

A low laugh echoed through the grate. "You've lost none of your charm, I see. One wonders why you left Nex, when you two could be father and son by your demeanor."

"Who the hell are you?" he snarled, gripping the bars of the grate and ignoring the filth crusted on them.

"In Silvermoon, in life, I was called Keleseth. Now most know me as Doran Havel."

Ilinar's breath hissed out. "You."

"Yes, it seems our former companions left me a choice of returning to Stormwind and certain death or being left alone to fend in the heart of Northrend. You can see which path I chose, and its eventual result."

"Why the hell are you scratching?"

Another jarring laugh. "I still have one arm, boy. Even stone must eventually fail, and there are plenty of frozen bones in my cell to use as tools. Also, being dead, time isn't really a factor. I'll win my freedom some day."

Ilinar's lip curled up in contempt. "Far better to join the Scourge and win true power."

Havel's snigger raised his hackles. "Like you did, Montfere? How's that working out for you?"

With a snarl he forced his power through the grate, seeking. After a few moments he heard Havel's grunt of surprise, and then silence. Eventually the scratching started up again.

Ilinar moved away from the grate and huddled against an icy wall, furious. The Lich who'd come out to save him from Nex had proved bereft of mercy. Within moments he'd found himself gripped by cruel geist claws and dragged into the necropolis and to this dungeon. All the way he'd shouted at the skeletal creature of frost and darkness, trying to explain his circumstance and what he had to offer. His cries had landed upon deaf ears.

More time passed, interminably, and he started to feel a bit of despair. He'd already died once, was he doomed to die again? With his power could death even take him, or would he slip into some form of undeath as Havel had done?

The opening of the door was so abrupt that it slammed into him before he could move, and he yelped and scampered back until he was pressed against the rear wall of the cell.

He'd been expecting undead servants, but instead a lean figure in heavy plate strode into the room, the fineness of his clothes suggesting someone of importance. Although if was difficult to see his features thanks to the scarf wrapped around his lower face the human was certainly undead, judging by the gray pallor around his eyes and the cold dark light glowing in them.

"So you're the elf boy who fancies himself a death knight?" the armored man asked softly, voice echoing oddly in the cell. His tone was cultured, his words clipped and precise.

Ilinar forced himself to his feet and stood tall. "Ilinar Montfere, of the Montferes of Corona's Blaze."

"A lofty title. You appear more a half-elf bastard, a wastrel tagalong of Kael'thas's pitiful band."

Ilinar scowled. "And your claim is a better one, human?"

Before the last word was half out of his mouth he found his throat seizing shut, ending his bold statement with a strangled grunt. He clawed desperately at his neck, but there was nothing there to pry loose. The pressure on his throat increased, and when he looked down he saw that he was almost a foot off the ground, pinned to the wall with casual strength.

"You miserable wretch. You address the Baron of Stratholme, Matthias Rivendare, friend of Kel'thuzad and personal servant of the Lich King. At Darkstone's behest I've come to assess your worth, but in all honesty you seem barely fit to be slain and reanimated as the least of undead."

Trying to snarl through a closed throat, Ilinar snatched at his power. His time in the dungeons had weakened him physically, but his power seemed to have grown in the intervening period. Although he'd never tried to grip anything larger than a rodent, he sought out this Rivendare's essence and closed about it. It was like trying to crush a diamond in his fist, and by the amusement dancing in Rivendare's eyes the man knew just how overmatched this confrontation was. Still he heaved on that iron will with all his strength, even as dark spots danced before his eyes.

A loud grating sound filled his ears, and Rivendare's lean, armored figure slid forward half a foot. The man grunted, whether in surprise, satisfaction, or disappointment, Ilinar couldn't tell. All he knew was that the viselike grip on his throat vanished and he fell heavily to the ground, gasping in strangled breaths.

"So, you're not completely useless after all. You're young and weak still . . . but death is patient, is it not?" His voice hardened. "Show me."

Ilinar looked up, blinking away tears of pain, and saw that the man had drawn his sword and was pointing at the blade, where powerful runes had been etched. After a few more shuddering breaths Ilinar bit his finger, then stretched it out and began painting runes on the wall.

"Good, boy. Not mere imitation of the ones you see upon my blade. If you've not learned it by now, you should know that all runes are a reflection of their wielder, and even among those that share the same purpose no two are the same. These ones are unique to you, to your power, and they speak of blood and vengeance. I am pleased." Rivendare abruptly turned. "Come."

Ilinar staggered to his feet and stumbled forward. "When will I have a runeblade of my own?"

Rivendare didn't turn, nor did he pause in his swift pace down the corridor. In his weakened state it was all Ilinar could do to keep the man in sight. But his voice drifted back, taunting.

"Runeblades are the highest form of weaponry, to rival even those wielded by demon lords. They're not some toy for a child. If you prove yourself worthy, when you're grown and have made the sacrifice you will be taught how to forge your own blade."

"What sacrifice?"

Now, finally, the Baron paused. "Why, taking the final step to finding true power. Death."


	29. Epilogue

Epilogue

In the Nether

The human paladin snarled as the withered plaguehound came at him again. The undead monstrosity, lean enough to suggest it had starved before death took it, snarled back and snapped. He swung his warhammer and the thing dodged, then darted forward and closed its jaws on the greave covering his left ankle.

Cursing, he kicked desperately and watched the thing sail away, rolling a couple times before it got its feet under it and charged him again. Gods, he hoped it hadn't found a hole in his armor, that he hadn't contracted some vile plague or curse from its bite. He swung again and this time connected, sending the thing flying away again yelping in distress.

Damn Garithos, the stupid bastard. Why the hell would he accept the offer of that undead bitch Sylvanas? She was one of _them_! So what if she offered the shattered Alliance army's best chance of destroying the few dreadlords and their Scourge servants remaining in Lordaeron. There would be treachery there, no doubt about it.

And damn his own stupidity for going east instead of south! Who gave a fuck about rumors of some asshole named Arugal trying to carve himself a fiefdom in the ruins just outside Gilneas? He wasn't afraid of tales of wolfmen and curses. Better than blundering through the Plaguelands starving to death.

The hound came again, and again he somehow managed to keep it at bay. As he fought he became aware of a slender figure leaning against a sagging fungus that might've once been a tree, up on the hill to his left. "Are you going to help?" he yelled at the figure as the hound came in again. No response. _Gods I hate this place. Well, just keep him away at least. One enemy's enough for the moment._

After another frantic minute he managed to shatter one of the beast's front legs, and with it slowed he was able to finally get in a blow against its head, shattering the skull and sending gooey dried bits of brain everywhere. The hound fell to a heap, snarling and twitching until it finally fell still.

Jarvak immediately whirled on the figure still standing impassively watching. "Hell take you, asshole! Just standing around watching a man fight for his life." He hefted his warhammer and took a step forward. "Well? Care to start up again?" Probably a stupid thing to do, exhausted as he was, but gods, the man's casual stance pissed him off. Or woman's . . . whoever it was, he wasn't very tall.

The figure finally moved, stepping lightly down the hill. Jarvak held his warhammer warily, the only thing keeping him from charging was the other's casual approach. "I don't think you'd want that," the figure finally said. His voice was low and amused, and it was one Jarvak recognized well. Biting back a groan, it was all he could do to keep from pissing himself as the figure reached up and pulled away his hood.

Nex-thanarak. The murderer who disappeared to another world. He appeared less starving and wasted than he had, and his eyes were bound with a dirty white rag, but other than that he seemed exactly the same.

Had he killed Puros, then? And what had he said just before stepping through the portal, something about how Jarvak should hope he never found him? To his humiliation he felt warm, disgusting wetness soaking his breeches beneath his armor. "You."

Nex smiled, revealing long canines. "Me."

"You went to a lot of effort to hunt me down. Should I feel honored about that?"

A one-shouldered shrug. "Your presence here is incidental. I have another purpose."

In spite of himself Jarvak relaxed. "What about it, then? Whatever your purpose here these are dangerous lands. Shall we find common cause?" There would be considerable advantage in having Nex as his ally. At least until the boy let his guard down.

Nex's smile widened. "I think not. Better men than you have made that offer, and been rebuffed."

Ah, yes. Hadn't Puros mentioned something about offering to travel with the boy? That rankled, hearing that arrogant oaf being called the better man. "Then be on your way."

The youth tilted his head slightly. "Your belligerence is astonishing, Smithan. Given the animosity your actions have fostered in me, I'd think you'd be doing everything you could to avoid angering me. Unless you truly are a fool who can solve problems no other way but with violence."

"I'm only human," Jarvak said, hefting his warhammer, "and this is how humans solve problems." If he was going to die, at least he'd die spitting in this murderer's eye.

"This is how animals solve problems."

The paladin shrugged. "Humans are animals." With a roar he charged, lifting his warhammer high overhead.

He hadn't gone more than a step before he was on fire. He died almost before he realized he was dying, his warhammer flying aside as he collapsed into a heap. The heat of Nex's spell continued to burn, hotter and hotter in a localized point, until even the paladin's armor was molten slag. Then he allowed the spell to cease, and as the ground hissed and boiled ambled over and picked up Smithan's hammer.

Then he settled back to wait.

Roughly five minutes later he cocked his head, hearing the thunder of wings, and as he straightened a dreadlord dropped from the sky and landed heavily before him, cutting off his easiest avenue of escape. Nex made no move to do so, however.

"You were foolish to so openly display your power and draw my attention, mortal," the pasty creature said in Common, voice deep and resonant. "Now at last, after almost a year of quiet in these plagued lands, I have something to amuse me once more."

Nex glanced over at the glassed patch of ground where Jarvak's body had rested. "Foolish?" he answered in Demonic. "Had I wanted to I could have killed this mortal with weapons alone."

"And yet your power lit the sky like a beacon, drawing all eyes to you for dozens of miles. Why would you take such a careless action?"

Nex curled back his lips to reveal fangs nearly as long as the dreadlord's. "You said it yourself, demon. To draw your attention." The dreadlord hissed in sudden wariness and extended a hand, summoning a fiery whip from the nether. Ten feet away Nex was holding the hammer one-handed in a grip suddenly made more difficult by growing claws. His brown hair had darkened to black, then burst into flames, and horns were sprouting from his forehead and along his jaw.

The dreadlord backed away a step as the demonic metamorphosis reached its final stages. "You're no mortal. Your power was veiled from me. Who do you serve?"

"Vengeance," Nex answered, not recognizing his own voice. He raised his hammer and charged.

The dreadlord flicked his whip out once, snagging the warhammer and yanking it away with inhuman strength. Nex allowed the weapon to be taken from him, and when the whip hissed in again allowed it to wrap around his wrist, burning harmlessly against his demon skin. It was his turn to yank, pulling the dreadlord off its feet and staggering towards him, and he charged forward to meet it. As he did green flames erupted from his skin, burning with ungodly heat. The dreadlord gave a wail and closed its wings around itself protectively.

Nex kept yanking on the whip, looping his hand around it to draw the dreadlord closer and closer. He plunged one clawed hand through the heavy leather membrane of the demon lord's wings, and with his second sight perceived when the dreadlord snapped at his hand. Opening his grip as wide as he could he caught the creature along its lower jaw, and holding it with a death grip he used his free hand to flay at the demon lord's mind from point blank range.

Crazed, the dreadlord heaved and managed to fling him away. Nex landed lightly and immediately sprang forward again, shoving aside the creature's desperate blows and watching that pasty skin burn. Finally he managed to get a grip on one of the dreadlord's clawed wrists, and with the demonic strength of his metamorphosis managed to break its arm cleanly. In less than a moment more he'd also broken one of its legs, and after a furious struggle he managed to bear it to the ground and pin it. Defeated, the dreadlord went limp beneath him, muscles flexing subtly as it sought an opportunity to escape.

"What's your name?" Nex hissed in its ear.

The dreadlord laughed scornfully. "You think me a fool, human? I give you my name and you'll summon me back to do your bidding."

"Wrong." Nex gave a low laugh of his own. "I want your name so when I find your homeworld I'll know who to look for to give you a final death. Soon, Nathrezim, I'll face you where there's no slipping into the Nether to survive."

The demon gave another scornful laugh. "Then you'll be frustrated. Our homeworld will not be found by the likes of you, and if you could find it you could never reach it. Even should you manage double impossibilities, as soon as you set foot upon our world you'd die. Even you cannot hope to match the power of the Nathrezim overlords. And we have allies to call upon."

"I'm in no hurry," Nex answered. He began preparing a fatal spell. "When you return home give my regards to Rachondimus. Tell him I'm coming for him first."

The dreadlord's only answer was a scream. It did not end quickly.

. . . . .

The shattered continental shelves of a dead world, crushed together to form the waypoint in the Twisting Nether known as Outland, drifted through the Great Dark Beyond, the secrets of the Nether opened to its sky in a way none on Azeroth could comprehend without seeing it with their own eyes.

A short distance from the red continent, on the eastern side of the clump, a series of small rocks drifted, caught up in the nether and thus weightless and, effectively, massless. Atop one lay a man, crudely arranged in burial state. If his flesh was desiccated by the furnace blast blowing from the waterless continent no sign of it was visible, for he wore the quilted underclothes that had in life protected his body from the weight of the heavy armor he bore. Sweat-stained, soiled, and torn, they seemed poor burial clothes.

The sight was made all the more saddening when one saw how the shoulders ended in a bloodstained collar, no head or neck to be seen. A desecration that would've enraged the corpse's living brothers.

And yet there were signs that this was indeed a revered burial site, not all of them visible. Across the man's chest, the hilt clasped over his heart in gloved hands, was laid a longsword of brilliant white metal, the edge impossibly sharp and magically reinforced, with a massive diamond forming the pommel, fused to smaller diamonds which formed its hilt.

Arranged around it, as if a collection of gifts and offerings near a graveside, other small tokens had been laid. A dodecahedron of oddly luminescent crystal, pulsing with a healing light. A wand swiftly but skillfully carved of scrub oak, covered with gilded runes and pulsing with shadow power. A ragged and charred squire's tunic of silver and blue with a roaring lion upon the breast, neatly folded beneath wand and crystal. And almost hidden within the tunic's folds, a heavy gold signet ring inscribed with an arcane rune.

Where the head should have rested for eternity a slab had been cut out from the underside of the floating rock, majestic in its crude lines. On it was carved the grave's dedication, two simple words which any unlikely passing stranger might read with genuine incomprehension:

_Irreconcilable differences._


	30. Extra

Extra

_ To you who finds this. If you will be kind enough to see that this missive finds its way into the hands of Perival Manaspark of the Stormwind City Magetower, I'm sure you will be compensated._

_ NT_

_ Manaspark,_

_At the time you read this I will no longer be upon Azeroth. If my skill proves sufficient I will have reached the nathrezim homeworld, somewhere in the most secret places of the Twisting Nether. Otherwise I am likely dead, having literally banished myself to the Nether._

_ I write this missive as an afterthought prior to departure. Though I am not well known, there may perhaps be those on Azeroth curious to learn the final fate of Nex-thanarak, called Nothing, liar, thief, betrayer, murderer, and oathbreaker. If you wish, you may share this missive with them._

_ It has been one year, four months, thirteen days since I freed myself from the slavery of the Burning Legion pawn known as Illidan Stormrage. In that time I have endeavored mostly to improve mastery of my second sight and seek its limits. Thus far I have not found them._

_ In the seeking I have found myself unable to extend the range of my sight beyond three thousand, four hundred and seventy yards. I have also learned that the detail with which I am able to probe my surroundings is inversely proportional to the distance I view them at. Thus most of my studies have taken place less than six inches from my eye sockets, as the locus of my second sight seems to reside in my forehead just below the brow arch._

_ Through agonizing scrutiny I have been able to probe the minisculities between the smallest particles and assess the magical connections which bind all things together. Through it I have gained vast comprehension of the workings of instantaneous communications and portals, as well as the workings of sympathetic bonds such as are used in voodoo and other primal magics. While the workings of the arcane and other schools of magic beyond my own abilities remain closed to me, I have learned much of their intricacies. I am able to unravel many lesser spells as they are cast, utterly confounding many spellcasters of small renown. Sadly, aside from these small insights I've grown little in power from such challenges._

_ It is only within the last few months that I've discovered how the Twisting Nether suffuses even the matter and energy of Azeroth, so we are literally surrounded by it even though most cannot access it. I have been able to perceive, and have thus drawn the attention of, many dark and vile powers. Some of which sought to overwhelm me and forced me to fight or flee, others which gave me no more notice than I a passing fly._

_ Once satisfied of my mastery of my second sight, I set about hunting the various dreadlords to be found in the barren wasteland of northern Lordaeron now known as the Plaguelands. For those unaware, dreadlords, officially nathrezim, are among the few denizens of the Twisting Nether able to manifest on the corporeal plane in such a way that, if defeated, find their essense merely banished back to the Nether. This makes them valuable spies, assassins, and scouts, though the need must be great to use creatures so high in the __councils of the Burning Legion for such purposes._

_ It was with great hope that I slew my first nathrezim, pressing my face close to its chest and concentrating like I have never concentrated before. Its essence slipped away like a wraith, sudden and swift, and I barely caught its fading sigh for all my searching. I continued on, undeterred, to slay several more. It was obvious to see that they were fleeing to the Nether, forced from the corporeal plane by the destruction of their mortal vessel, but my gaze could not follow._

_ Until luck found me. A lesser nathrezim known as Chorindus, weak and pathetic in comparison to most. I know not whether it was some fluke of its essence, or if the efforts I made to catch its soul and bind myself to it with dark rituals finally succeeded, or merely if it was so weak that it was unable to hide its flight like the others had, but I saw the path it took. Saw it as clearly as if it had been left open for me. An invitation to follow._

_ Which I accepted._

_ Using relics pilfered from the Cathedral of Light within the ruins of Lordaeron, which I came across while hunting the pet of the self-styled Banshee Queen Sylvanas, a dreadlord called Varimathras who had the honor of being one of the chief officers of the Burning Legion on Azeroth before defecting. I was unable to fight through the ranks of autonomous undead to reach the craven nathrezim, and at the last was hounded by a force of banshees who had regained their bodies and become Dark Rangers of great power, obliging me to flee._

_ Still, the relics give me the power I need to create the portal which will allow me to follow Chorindus. My power has grown enough that I could almost imagine trying it without such trinkets, and has grown to the point where I can read the portal spell inscribed on my teeth and burn the words in my mind, a feat my former Mistress once called impossible. No longer needing the written spell, and unwilling to risk it falling into the hands of others, I have scoured it from my enamel. As far as I now know, my mind is the only location in which this spell resides. I have determined it will die with me._

_ All for the best._

_ At last the time has come. My desire for vengeance against demonkind can never be sated, but it is likely that on the nathrezim homeworld I will meet my end trying. If not, perhaps I will at the last find my way into the strongholds of the Legion's highest officers and destroy it from within. If so, it will fall upon the shoulders of all creatures of order to stand against the unchecked demons who will swarm across existence._

_ A fool's hope, for my memory of Kil'jaeden's power remains ever with me. A power none can challenge, save it be the Pantheon itself, or all the forces of order arrayed as one._

_ Nex-thrakul-thanarak-Taeja-koril_

Ilinar crumpled the paper in his hand, teeth gritted. So, all his searching only to find that Lokiv had passed eternally beyond his grasp. After all the man's lies, betrayals, and failures, all the weakness of body, soul, and power that Ilinar would have punished.

The nathrezim homeworld, in search of dreadlords to slay. Ilinar knew more of dreadlords than most, after all his time spent in the service of the Lich King. The former overlords of the Scourge who had been betrayed and destroyed by their pawns. Unlike most, he acknowledged that the nathrezim did return to the Nether at death, that they did have a homeworld where they could regain their power to manifest once more on the corporeal plane.

And Ilinar had no desire to visit there. No desire to challenge the Burning Legion on its own soil. Such a move would be madness followed swiftly by death. Much as he hated Lokiv, he had to at least acknowledge the man's power and genius, if he'd truly managed to reach that hellish place.

In any case, whether Lokiv had succeeded or failed his death was certain. There was no more reason to divert anger, bitterness, or even thought upon the human.

After an eternity Ilinar opened his hand, letting the paper fall to the floor. Then he picked up the lantern and dashed it onto the floor, watching silently as his former Master's last words burned. The paper resisted the flames for a time, and then as it finally began to burn a spelltrap triggered, sending whiplike tendrils of shadow flailing out in every direction. A protection to ensure Lokiv's message wasn't heedlessly destroyed without some punishment meted out.

Exactly the sort of thing the human demon hunter would do.

The shadowy tendrils flailed against the runic ward Ilinar threw up, unable to penetrate his magical defenses, and after a few more moments the paper was consumed.

After almost a full hour staring at the pathetic dusting of ashes Ilinar finally stirred, then spat at the floor and turned away, crushing the last remnant of Lokiv underfoot.


	31. Promo

Update

Honor

Hey everyone.

For those of you who enjoyed my Demon Hunter series I've begun a new story, set during the Cataclysm time frame, called "Honor." November is National Novel Writing Month, and now that I've finished a book to publish it's time for some fun. With any luck I'll complete Honor by the end of the month, as long as I'm insane.

It follows two orcs in Garrosh's Horde, an old hero suffering from nightmares of his time under Mannoroth's Blood Oath, and his daughter, a young orc warrior searching for glory in the new Horde just as conflict flares up to greater heights than has been seen since the Third War.

You'll probably see some familiar faces in the book, and perhaps some surprising ones too. Now for a Jean-Ralphio style buzzword bomb.

Titan facility! Fire elemental! Ancients gone wild! It's not easy being green! Druid! Shredder! Zug zug! Wedding...what?! Zerg bug? Quillboar! Wolf mount! Power overwhelming! New fire around the edges! "it doesn't go" in Spanish! What is this I don't even


	32. Firefly Girl Promo

Hey everyone.

I'm pleased to present my most recent published Fantasy novel, a children's fairy tale called Firefly Girl. It follows the story of Alissa, a brave girl who lives in a little village deep in the aspen woods of Sephronia and raises fireflies for the village lanterns. When the Curse comes to her village she must take a dangerous journey to reach the palace in Sephron and beg the Court Wizard for help.

Firefly Girl will be up for free on Amazon Kindle from Feb. 10th to Feb. 12th if you want to take a look, and I hope if you enjoy it you'll review it and recommend it to anyone else you think might enjoy it. Here's a sample chapter of the book to give you some idea what it's all about.

NT

Firefly Girl

by Nate Jones

This book is dedicated with love to my nieces,

who are each and every one a Princess in my eyes.

Chapter One

The Grain Merchant

In a very distant land called Sephronia there is a woods. Not a dark and gloomy woods but a bright, cheerful place of airy aspen trees with white trunks and green crowns. Sunlight filters through the widely spaced groves in an emerald glow slashed by golden sunbeams, and deer and squirrels and other woodland creatures frolic beneath the leafy canopy overhead.

It is quite a large woods, blanketing hills and valleys all through the heart of Sephronia, and nestled peacefully in its own little valley deep within the woods lies the village of Erlin. In that village lives a girl named Alissa, not quite a child but not quite a young woman. Like the other girls of the village she wears her long brown hair in a braid which is wrapped around her head like a circlet and pinned neatly in place, and she has lively brown eyes that sparkle with joy.

Alissa's father is a farmer, a big strong man who raises big strong cows, letting them browse far and wide through the woods with bells on their collars. Sometimes he would ask for Alissa's help, and she would peer between the slender white trunks for signs of the black and white spotted cows he raised, ears straining for the merry tinkling of their bells. When Alissa was younger the cows had been frighteningly large, staring at her with big brown eyes, but she'd come to trust in their gentleness, and when she called for them to come with her they followed placidly.

But while Alissa was proud of her father for his prosperous herd, and glad to help when needed, she was often busy at her own work. You see, Alissa was a farmer too. And while the cows her father raised were as strong and gentle as he, the creatures she raised were as delicate and pretty as she.

For Alissa raised fireflies.

No one in Erlin could boast fireflies as fine as the daughter of Johan the farmer and Lisette the innkeeper. When a villager came to Alissa with a lantern she filled it with the largest, brightest, healthiest fireflies to be found, quite handsome insects that shone the whole night through when needed.

And you will never find a girl more diligent at the work than Alissa. With her father's help she'd built counters in front of the window sills of her bright, airy room, and lined them with wooden boxes for the fireflies to use as houses, with large cheery windows for them to peek out of, and glass bottles poking out on top where they could go and buzz in the sunshine. They were quite comfortable homes, and Alissa made certain the fireflies were never stifled.

She fed them well, too, twice a day. Once when the sun was directly overhead at noon, and once just before it set in the evening. It was nearly time to feed them now and the fireflies were making sure she knew it. They filled the glass bottles on top of their houses, buzzing at her in case she'd forgotten them.

At the moment Alissa was sitting on her bed, biting her bottom lip in concentration as she fussed with her lantern. Many in the village used thin waxed paper lanterns, since they were cheap and easy to make, but Alissa's father had given her a glass lantern of her very own. It was quite the loveliest and most precious thing she owned, and she was even more proud of it than of her small collection of dolls or her pretty festival dress. Needless to say she was quite careful with it.

But even the most careful people can break things they must use often. Luckily it was not the most difficult thing to mend, only the wire hinge on the little door at the front of the lantern. Alissa would press it against the door of one of her firefly houses and then pull both aside so she could tell the fireflies to go in or out of the lantern, which they usually did quite obediently.

She could trust her glowing friends to do as they were told most of the time, and the fireflies were quite as fond of their master as Alissa was of them. But they did delight in vexing her at times, as they were now with their loud buzzing, distracting her while she was doing work that required her to concentrate very hard. Alissa did her best to ignore them, but the fireflies would have none of that and kept up their racket.

Finally with a sigh the young girl set aside her broken lantern and flapped her hands sternly at the little insects. "That's quite enough buzzing, you'll be fed soon. Goodness so impatient . . . it's not even noon!"

Alissa had a tendency to rhyme when she was excited.

But the fireflies showed no sign of stopping buzzing about their little bottles. They really were impatient, and sometimes no more talkative than her father's cows. Alissa decided she'd best feed them early for once if they were going to make such a nuisance of themselves, and went to fetch their food. In any case today was a big day and she'd have lots of things to do, so it was probably best to get started.

The grain merchant was coming some time today, and she must help her mother and father get everything ready for when he arrived.

Fireflies ate a great many things, especially when they were still glowworms, but Alissa fed her fireflies only the best flowers she gathered in the meadows around the village. Once they'd had their fill of the pollen and nectar she gave the rest of the flowers to her mother to crush with other sweet-smelling things and put in jars around the inn, giving it a lovely scent through most of the year.

In spite of their complaining her fireflies weren't quite so hungry as they acted, and she was left with enough flowers to feed them in the evening too. She tucked them away in their own little cloth bag to keep them fresh and turned to the small plate she used as a mirror to make sure she was presentable.

Fixing the lantern would have to wait til later, for now that the fireflies were fed Alissa had other work to do. Her mother would need her help around the inn, cleaning and preparing a room and collecting food the grain merchant could take with him on his travels, and all sorts of other chores. And she'd probably need to help her father with the cows as well.

Alissa called a farewell to her fireflies as she dashed out of her room and down the hall towards the kitchen. She wasn't carrying her lantern this time, so there was no need to worry about carelessly tripping or banging it on a bookshelf. The kitchen was empty save for a pot of stew over the fire, boiling and boiling the hours until the meat was tender. Alissa crossed to the door leading out into the stableyard.

As she'd expected, her mother was over at the wash lines hanging laundry when Alissa came outside. Her mother took pride in the cleanliness of her inn, and she spent quite a bit of time washing and scrubbing when she wasn't serving guests. Laundry was an important part of that, and her mother was always particular about cleaning a room's linens after the guests had left. Sometimes before they arrived, too, if it was someone important.

This time it was the grain merchant's arrival that had her mother in such a bustle of activity, and Alissa wasn't surprised to be called over as soon as she came outside.

"Oh good, you're finished with your firefly chores," her mother said, pausing to wipe a wisp of hair out of her face. "Are they faring well?"

Alissa nodded. "Although they will insist on being impatient. I had to feed them early or they simply wouldn't quit their buzzing."

"Fireflies get like that in late spring," her mother said, which Alissa already knew. "Other creatures too, I've noticed."

Although her mother could've been talking about anyone or anything, Alissa couldn't help but wonder if those words were meant for her. She _had_ been a little excitable of late, she supposed. But before she could ask her mother straightened, suddenly businesslike, and flapped her hands towards the forest. "All right, then. Your father would like you to go round up Bessy before the grain merchant comes. He'll be giving her in trade this year."

Alissa nodded and hurried out of the stableyard towards the edge of the forest not far away. She didn't know where Bessy was, but if she had trouble finding the heifer she could always ask the other cows. What was more important was getting to the forest quickly and enjoying every minute in it.

It was light and airy beneath the trees this time of day, awash with golden emerald light filtering through the canopy above. The forest around her village was so friendly and bright that it was hard to believe there was a Curse on the land bringing peril to the people of Sephronia.

"They should just come live here," she murmured as she hopped up on logs and stumps and craned her neck to see between the spindly white trunks stretching as far as she could see. There was no sign of cows yet, but they roamed pretty far searching for fresh grass. That wasn't a problem for Alissa since there were plenty of signs of where they'd gone for her to follow.

She skipped along the trampled path, listening to the sounds of birdsong and of small animals chittering to each other. Normally woodland creatures fell silent when humans came close, unless they were squirrels and fell into fits of scolding, but even if they didn't know Alissa yet they seemed to trust her. A few would even talk to her, although wild animals usually didn't have much to say about the dealings of humans. It was quite hard to find one who wasn't absolutely hopeless at directions, for instance.

Before too long she found a few stragglers from the herd, off to one side of the path browsing around a chrysanthemum bush. They looked over as she drew near. "Have you seen Bessy?" she asked. They stared back at her placidly, and one leaned back down to tear up another mouthful of grass. Alissa put her hands on her hips. "Hurry it up, please. I haven't the time."

After a long, thoughtful pause the oldest of the cows inclined her head towards a spot deeper in the woods, and Alissa patted her broad cheek as she slipped by. "Thank you."

Cows were more sensible in horses in some ways, and less sensible in others, but one thing you could always trust was that they knew where to find the rest of the herd. Before too long Alissa found most of her father's cows grazing in a clearing. In the middle of them, laying at rest like a queen among her subjects, Alissa found Bessy. The heifer was quite handsome and well aware of it, and Alissa had to admit, albeit sheepishly, that when Bessy was a calf she'd spoiled her rotten.

At the very least that made Bessy only too happy to scramble to her feet at Alissa's arrival, and follow Alissa quite contentedly back the way they'd come towards the village. Alissa spent that time feeling quite sad that Bessy would be going off with the grain merchant. He would treat her like a queen too, of course, and she'd produce plenty of milk for his farm, but it would still mean not seeing her anymore.

She reached back and stroked Bessy's soft nose. "Oh I will miss you," she said sadly. "Even if you are quite willful at times." The heifer looked at her with large brown eyes, but since she didn't know the grain merchant would be taking her home of course she had no idea what Alissa was talking about.

Not too long after that a piercing whistle rang through the forest and Alissa stiffened with excitement. Sure enough, through the trees behind her she saw the large, solid shape of her father approaching. She gave a happy cry and caught Bessy's head in both hands, pointing her towards the village.

"Go on home, please, and then you stay! If you're good you'll get grain instead of hay."

The heifer answered with a complacent _moo_ and continued on towards the village, while Alissa scrambled through the woods over deadfall and between spindly aspen trunks to meet her father. When she reached him she threw herself into his arms, and he laughed and spun her around a few times before setting her down.

"I see you've found Bessy already," he said, kissing the top of her head. "Good. I'm finished with all my chores too, so we can head home together and see what your mother needs us to do."

Alissa slipped her hand into his and walked beside him back the way they'd come, following the noises of Bessy up ahead. This was her favorite thing about going out into the woods, finding her father and walking beside him wherever he was going. He always beamed like the sun when he saw her, so it must be his favorite thing too.

Back in the stableyard Alissa kept her promise to Bessy, who was waiting patiently by the stable doors, and led her into a fresh stall where she poured a few cupfuls of corn into the manger. She left the heifer to her contented munching and hurried inside to see what help her mother needed.

It turned out her mother needed a lot of help. Alissa spent the rest of the afternoon scrubbing floors, fetching items for the same list the grain merchant always ordered when he was in town, and carefully smoothing the wrinkles out of bed linens and plumping pillows. All while they worked they expected to hear a shout from the young children of the village to announce the grain merchant's arrival, or perhaps the merchant himself whistling every bit as piercingly as her father could.

But he must have been running late, because before too long the sun was lowering in the sky and not even her mother could think of any more chores to be done. She finally set Alissa to helping her bake more bread so the merchant would have more tasty meals on the way home rather than hard biscuits and jerky, while her father went out to the stables one last time to make sure the stalls where the wagon's oxen would be bedded down were clean and filled with fodder.

At long last, just when her mother was wondering aloud whether the grain merchant might not come at all that day, a shout from the edge of the village drew Alissa and her parents outside, as well as most of the other villagers. That was a few of the young children waiting by the road to be the first to glimpse the wagon. Alissa remembered when she used to wait there, but now she was older and had quite too many chores for lounging about.

Instead she stood with the adults as the large wagon creaked ponderously up the road into the village, swaying with sacks of wheat and barley stacked high over the grain merchant's head and covered with canvas tied down with rope so they wouldn't spill at a bump. The grain merchant was also swaying, his blond head drooping low over the reins as the oxen pulled the wagon up to the inn.

Normally when he arrived the grain merchant drove the wagon right to the inn's cellar door so the wheat could be unloaded, but this time he stopped just inside the stableyard and laboriously climbed down. He was a young man still, and usually quite hale and hearty, so he must be very tired from the journey. His knees nearly buckled when he reached the ground.

Alissa's father started forward to embrace the man, for they were good friends, but before he'd come too close the grain merchant shouted "Wait!" in quite an alarming way that frightened Alissa. As her father paused the other man sagged to his knees and hunched over, and his loose shirt fell away to reveal terrible boils on his neck and shoulders.

Her father yelled in dismay and leapt backwards. There were few things that could frighten him, but this was one. "The plague, the plague!" he shouted. "Stay away, stay away!" At his warning the villagers lining the fence outside the stableyard gasped and retreated back into the street.

Alissa's hands flew to her mouth as she huddled back in the doorframe. "He suffers the plague, what a terrible thing! I can't think of anything worse he could bring."

The grain merchant sagged back against the wagon wheel behind him. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I'm sorry, Johan. I shouldn't have brought the plague to Erlin, but I needed help. Please, please give me a bed and some food and water. I might survive it still."

Her father was a generous man, and he loved the grain merchant dearly, but the plague was such a terrible thing that it tested even the strongest friendship. He shook his head, retreating back to where Alissa and her mother stood while shaking his head. "The plague, in Erlin," he said in a low voice heavy with sadness. "The Curse has reached our little village at last."


End file.
